Fathoming
by Star Vortex
Summary: Arthur knows very little about "Emrys"––only that it is magical, elusive and possibly the only thing capable of defeating Morgana. As Camelot moves ever closer to its golden age, the fate of Albion rests on whether or not Arthur can find this Emrys and wield it against Morgana, whatever it may be. Destinies change and futures deceive; fate is never set in stone. After s4, AU s5.
1. Wounds

Morning dawned over Camelot with clear skies and a soft wind that smelled faintly of the ocean, laced with traces of trash and animals and woodsmoke and all those other things that inevitably followed the footsteps of human life. It was all dirt, sweat and work that was carried on the wind, none of which could ever be considered "pleasant" to someone used to the flowered halls of the castle proper.

Still, Merlin found himself enjoying that thick mixture of smells as he went about his morning, even going so far as to open the windows to let a breeze in. It was the first time in months that he'd been able to smell anything other than the smoke and blood of Morgana's brief grab for the throne of Camelot. It wasn't something he could easily explain, not even to Gaius, because he realized that it wasn't a smell so much as a feeling––one of those vague, usually unhelpful impressions that would appear out of thin air without any real reason.

The wounds Morgana had inflicted were finally beginning to close. Camelot was healing.

Not that Arthur was interested in any of it.

"Good morning!" Merlin exclaimed as he threw open the curtains.

Arthur croaked into one pillow and pulled a sheet over his head. Merlin frowned; he had been hoping for banter, annoyance, or at the very least, some interest in the coming day. Arthur hadn't shown any of those since… Merlin couldn't remember. And it worried him more than he cared to say.

It was easy to see that the king hadn't been himself since the siege, and it was easy to explain away as Arthur simply being himself––worrying for his people, blaming himself for those that had been lost, deciding how to keep them safe in the future––but those sorts of thoughts could not be shouldered forever. Merlin considered himself a perceptive person, particularly when it came to Arthur, and the tense silences and blank stares were painfully familiar.

Arthur was scared.

It wasn't the immediate, up-in-arms fear that Arthur was usually so good at handling. It was something new, something deep and vast that even Merlin could not begin to guess at. It hurt that Merlin didn't know how to help, because the months hadn't allowed him to even ask––even if Arthur hadn't fallen into silence, there was still always something to do, some message to carry or project to oversee, and then there were all his regular chores that had been made all the more difficult by his king's inhuman ability to work them both into the ground "for the love of Camelot."

Today, though… today was the day Merlin was going to change it.

The servant harrumphed and tied the curtains in place. "Really. Sun is shining, birds are singing, it's going to be a lovely day; what does it take to make a 'good' morning for you?"

"You shutting up."

"Please; how would you get anything done if I didn't tell you what to do?"

Arthur threw a candlestick that hit Merlin squarely in the stomach. The manservant gasped and sputtered, but then Arthur smiled at him––one of those real, genuine smiles that had become so rare.

"See?" Arthur said, gesturing to his servant's general pain. "Now it is a good morning. Where's my breakfast?"

Merlin grumbled a half thought-out insult under his breath and fetched the ham and bread sitting on the table, consciously resisting the urge to drop it on Arthur's head when he made his way over. Despite the automatic annoyance, there was a small swell of hope in Merlin's chest; it had been months since Arthur had last felt good enough to throw something at him. The young warlock thought that he knew his king well, but even he had found it difficult to get past the cold wall of silence that had become Arthur's every waking moment.

"Now," Merlin chimed, snapping back to his usual morning cheer. "Let's get you up before you get any fatter!" A bit of an easy blow, but always a surefire way to get a response.

He ducked the plate that flew at his head and trotted on to get the bathtub ready. Most of the water he'd hauled into the chambers was somewhat lukewarm, but a bucket or two of boiling water would change that quick enough. And since Arthur seemed physically incapable of getting out of bed by himself today, Merlin was safe to boil the necessary water with a single gesture and incantation. When all was ready, he made his way back to the king's bedside.

"Come on, up."

Arthur made that groan that meant he wasn't at all interested in what the day had to offer him, and so Merlin sighed heavily, rolled up his sleeves and made him.

"Merlin!" Arthur yelped as he was hauled forcefully out of bed and onto the cold stone floor.

"Feeling better?"

"I will with you in the stocks! It's freezing down here!"

"Sounds like a very good reason to hop in a hot bath. Just over there."

Arthur growled something very un-kingly and made his way behind the dressing screen. Since the king was able to at least bathe himself, Merlin took the pause to rifle through the closets and pick out Arthur's clothing for the day, praying to whatever forces were listening that Arthur wouldn't ask for the chainmail. When he'd narrowed the jackets down to two choices, he brought them over to Arthur for judgement.

"Silk or velvet, sire?"

Arthur paused and frowned. "Is something special going on that I don't know about?"

"A council meeting!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, we have those every week. My armor will do just fine, Merlin."

Merlin frowned. "You've been wearing armor every day since the siege. And that isn't an exaggeration; there has not been a single day where you've worn ordinary clothes."

"Then there's no reason to change it now."

"There won't be any danger, sire, surely? It's a council meeting."

"There is always danger, Merlin, and so we must always be ready for it."

"You can't be ready for danger at every single second of the day."

"I can, and I will if you do as you're told and get me my chainmail."

"It's not like the paperwork is going to jump up at you."

"Then what difference does it make?"

"If you're really that frightened, sire, just keep me close and I'll protect you."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, and Merlin paused in anticipation. There was a long, long silence in which the two of them simply stared at one another, but the warlock had played the masculinity card––if anything was going to win the argument, it was that.

"Silk," the king finally demanded.

Silk it was, then.

"And since I won't be wearing my chainmail today, I'm sure you'd love the opportunity to polish it."

And just like that, Merlin's sense of victory was snuffed out.

Whatever quarrel the young warlock had, though, it slipped away soon enough; neither king nor servant were capable of being annoyed with each other for very long. And if truth were to be told, Merlin was more than a little excited to see Arthur rise to the various jibes that he tossed out; it made everything feel… not exactly normal, but like it was on its way towards normal. Perhaps Arthur could start to heal, too.

Still, it was barely five minutes before Merlin turned around and caught Arthur staring blankly out the window, face drawn into a tense mask of contemplation. It was less difficult today than it had been days past; dragging some emotion, any emotion, out of the king's self-imposed meditation was a trial in and of itself, but Merlin was having an easier time of it this morning. Perhaps it was the smell in the air. Perhaps it was the general lack of grief and melancholy. Perhaps Arthur had simply decided that today was a nice day. Whatever the case, Merlin was too grateful to question; he'd managed to get a smile already, and that was more than he'd gotten in the past week. With any luck, perhaps he could figure out exactly why Arthur was so afraid before the day was out.

The messenger came more quickly than they had expected, informing them that the council was in the process of convening and that the king's presence was expected. Merlin wrestled Arthur into his clothes as quickly as he was able, and was quite proud of how presentable Arthur turned out to be in spite of the rush. Arthur didn't give it a second thought, of course, since he had decided to blame Merlin for being late––pointedly ignoring Merlin's comments on how it was Arthur who had refused to get up in the first place––and the two of them arrived to the meeting in a great flurry of blame, names and insults.

More than one knight had to hide a chuckle with a cough.

"We'll finish this later," Arthur growled to Merlin, although Merlin was quite sure that they would both forget the whole thing before the council meeting was over.

"Sire," said Sir Leon, who was gracious enough to keep his face straight.

"Leon. Percival. Gwain. Gaius. Elyan." Arthur nodded to each person around the table in turn.

Arthur took his seat and Merlin settled into a comfortable slouch at his right shoulder. The meeting began.

"We'll begin with you, Sir Leon," said the king. "What's been our progress on the walls?"

Leon dipped his head respectfully. "The outer walls are almost fully repaired, sire. There is still some patchwork in the northern sectors, but we do have them under constant watch and they should be fully functional within the next few weeks."

"And the inner walls?"

"Those will take more time. Specific numbers are still unclear, but once the outer walls are complete we can turn our full attention inward. So long as nothing complicates the process, all the walls of Camelot should be fully restored by summer's end."

Merlin could have sworn he saw the king's shoulders relax, although Arthur's face remained carefully neutral as he nodded.

"That is good news. Divide labour and resources as you see fit, Leon. Percival, what of your scouts?"

"There is still no word of Morgana's fate," Percival replied. "We've not found any remains or any sign of her escape, although it does seem that we've cleared the lands surrounding Camelot of her forces; we haven't seen any of her mercenaries in weeks, but we did find a small nest of bandits."

"Bandits. Have they been dealt with?"

Percival nodded. "Yes, sire; those that did not fight to the death have fled. We've seen no sign of them since last week."

"Do you believe the land around Camelot to be safe?"

Percival was silent for a moment, but then he nodded. "I don't think there is any more trouble to be found there, but I would suggest waiting another week to be certain."

Arthur dipped his head. "Very well. We'll speak on it next week; once you feel sure that it is safe, we'll lift the curfew on the people."

Merlin felt the brief ripple of excitement like a breeze against his skin, although no one at the table showed any outward sign. When the curfew lifted, it would mean that the city was safe for good.

The meeting moved on, and as Arthur began drilling Gwaine on the state of their forces, Merlin heard the soft rustle of an approaching Guinevere.

"Arthur's in a fine mood today," Gwen whispered, leaning close so that their conversation didn't interrupt the meeting.

"He threw a plate at me this morning. And a candlestick."

"Both? It must be a really good morning."

"Tell that to the bruise on my gut."

"Did he smile?"

Merlin grinned. "Yes."

Gwen sighed in relief. "Good."

The months after the attack had been hard on them all, and Gwen was no exception. She looked just as raggedly tired as anyone else around the table, with bags under her eyes and exhaustion framing every line of her face. As Camelot had spent months slowly getting back onto its feet, she had taken up responsibility for the castle itself––hiring staff, seeing that everything was restored to its proper place, comforting the families of the dead––and her work was clear in her hands and shoulders. She'd barely had time to speak to Merlin at all, never mind Arthur, but she was here now; if she'd managed to find the time for a council meeting, it could only mean that her tasks were growing fewer and fewer.

"Thank you," Gwen said suddenly.

Merlin blinked. "For what?"

"For making him smile."

"Yeah, well, it'd be a lot easier if I wasn't doing it all by myself."

Gwen chuckled. "You know I don't have any time."

Merlin raised a brow and glanced at the meeting, where Arthur was asking Gaius for the state of those still healing.

"I don't know," said the young warlock. "It looks like most everything's clearing up now. Walls are almost done, streets are clear again, the forest's safe; I think you'll both be finding yourselves with free time before the week is out."

Gwen sighed and nodded with a small smile. "Yes. It's good to see things getting better. I was away for so long… it will be good to see Camelot as it was always meant to be."

Merlin leaned closer so he could be even more quiet. "He's missed you, you know. Even if he doesn't admit it."

Gwen shrugged. "We've all had our duties; there's never enough time for anything."

"I'm sure there will be," Merlin assured her. Ideas were already beginning to fill up his head.

"We can hope," Gwen replied quietly, turning her attention back to the meeting.

It might have just been his position, but Merlin was quite aware of the longing glances Gwen sent Arthur's way––just as he was aware of Arthur's almost-invisible fidgeting underneath those glances. Both of them were far too proud to look each other in the eye, because of course that would have resolved everything too easily, and by the end of the council meeting they were both moving around in that tense, jerky way that meant they were anxious.

And since Merlin was the only person who ever noticed these things, he was just anxiously annoyed when everyone was dismissed.

Gwen and Arthur both left in a hurry, quite elaborately looking at everything except each other as they took different doors out of the council chambers. Merlin followed close on Arthur's heels, somewhat disappointed that the meeting was over; while listening to reports and decisions was never exactly thrilling, standing around quietly was perhaps one of the easiest duties he could think of. And, like all easy things, it never lasted. But if he could just think of a way to talk about Gwen…

"Merlin!" Arthur snapped.

Merlin blinked.

"Are you even listening to me?" the king asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Maybe?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Horses, Merlin."

"Horses… yes, you want me to…?"

"See if they can knock some sense into you, for one. The cavalry drill this morning?"

The cavalry drill. Yes, there had been one schedule for the morning, hadn't there?

"You've been doing a cavalry drill every morning for the past week."

"They need the practice."

"Against what? You heard what Percival said; there's no one out there for them to fight."

"We need to be ready."

There it was again. We need to be ready. There's always danger. Merlin couldn't remember a time that Arthur had been so stubborn about so many things. Perhaps the general cheer of the day was making it seem worse, but the warlock's exhaustion and general frustration were getting heavier by the second; as long as Arthur remained so completely on edge, nothing could be done to help him.

With a sigh, Merlin sacrificed himself for the greater good. "Are you sure it's them that need the practice?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed wickedly. "You're right, I must be mistaken. You clearly need some practice with your footwork. We obviously need to try a new exercise today!"

And that was how Merlin ended up spending the rest of the day being charged at by horsed knights pointing lances at target right he held aloft, as far away from his head as possible.

* * *

When Merlin was finally allowed to stagger out of the jousting arena, he was met by a sweating, stinking Gwaine atop a sweating, stinking brown horse.

"Still with us, Merlin?" Gwaine chuckled, tossing his waterskin. Merlin caught the waterskin and didn't answer, preferring instead to drain the thing until it was half-empty––making Gwaine grin with a chiding "Easy, there; don't go making yourself sick on it."

Merlin returned the waterskin and wiped his mouth. Nearby, the other knights that had participated in the impromptu jousting practice were dismounting, shedding their armor and getting ready to move on to whatever duties they had for the afternoon.

All except Arthur, who was trotting over to Gwaine and Merlin with a massive smile plastered across his face.

"Good to see you resting, Merlin," the king snickered. "I take it that means you have enough energy for another go?"

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "Oh, come off it, sire; you're as worn out as the rest of us."

"Perhaps you have enough energy for another go, Gawain?"

Realizing that he was on the verge of volunteering himself, Gawain held up his hands in surrender. "Meant nothing by it, Princess."

"Then nothing's taken," Arthur assured. Then, to Merlin, "My horse needs watering. He's a bit heated; don't let him drink himself sick."

Merlin sighed in relief. "Yes, sire." Watering the horse was practically a promise that practice was over.

Arthur fell into step beside Merlin. When they reached the water trough, Merlin made use of his king's company.

"The apples are probably coming in," Merlin said. "It's been a good summer for them."

Arthur rolled his eyes and set his helmet on a post. "Let me guess: you want to go frolicking through the fields to find some."

Merlin shrugged. "I don't know. I just heard Gwen mention it."

Arthur's full attention snapped to him. "What did Guinevere say about them?"

Merlin chuckled. "Nothing; she just said it while we were talking, how she'd like to go looking for some. Not that I blame her; she's been working as hard as you have. Barely sets foot outside the castle. I'll bet she misses it."

Arthur was silent for a moment. Then, "We can't be certain the forest is safe for another week."

Merlin leveled a pointed look at his friend. "Oh, if only there was someone willing to keep her safe."

Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Your subtlety knows no limits, Merlin."

"You'd be surprised."

"I would be very surprised, indeed."

Merlin grinned and tugged at the horse's bridle, yanking the animal's head out of the water before it drank itself ill.

"I guess it's not really that important," the servant continued. "I mean, she's certainly used to working nonstop––I'd say she's been working more than you have. It's not as if she'll mind another two weeks."

"Merlin."

"Sire?"

"... Shut up and get some fresh horses."

Merlin had the good sense to hide his grin until he was out of sight.

Guinevere, of course, nearly glowed when Merlin passed on Arthur's invitation for a picnic. She set her work aside immediately, dashing off for a more appropriate dress and leaving Merlin to prepare everything himself. After helping Arthur out of his armor and into something more appropriate, he was sent to gather up what they needed; food, blankets, pillows––it was all routine and easy, to the point that Merlin almost forgot to be irritated that he would be the only one carrying anything.

Arthur was first to the courtyard, which gave Merlin a clear view of his king's face when Guinevere joined them, wrapped up in purple and blue lace like… well, like a queen. Arthur stared in silence as Gwen made her way down the steps, and Merlin looked away so he could give their greeting at least some illusion of privacy––even though he could hear them both stumbling over their words like lovestruck children. They hadn't spoken to one another in so long that Merlin was willing to hold his tongue, at least this once; it felt only reasonable that they might need some time to get back into the swing of things.

The three of them mounted their horses and set off at a leisurely walk, with Arthur in the lead and Merlin in the back. The conversation was stilted and awkward as they moved through the city––they managed to get that house patched up, that family is doing well with what they've lost, Leon thinks that the walls will be done by the end of summer, I know Arthur I was at the meeting––but it eased when they got outside the castle gates. When the stone and soldiers faded behind them, their responsibilities and worries faded as well; soon enough they were all by themselves with a curtain of forest holding back the weight of their everyday lives.

Summer was in full bloom around them, having just moved beyond its peak; although not yet late enough to be called 'late summer,' it wouldn't be very long before it was appropriate. The heat was somewhat less oppressive, and the berries and fruits were ripening to their best. The clouds were few, the birds were loud and the tree canopy was thick. It was a perfect day to be outside.

"Merlin! Stop staring at the flowers and get moving!"

They'd stopped, and Arthur was glaring at him expectantly––because of course Arthur wasn't going to do any of the lifting. Merlin groaned theatrically and dismounted, gathering up everything that had been loaded onto his unfortunate horse.

"Over there, under that tree, Merlin," Arthur commanded, barely giving his servant any time to catch his breath.

Merlin grumbled and did as he was told, shuffling under a massive oak tree and leaning against the trunk; Arthur always like to give him a hard time, and so he knew better than to set everything down before knowing for certain that this was where Arthur actually wanted to settle.

Indeed, it was only a few moments before Arthur grinned mischievously and changed his mind.

"The stream doesn't run close enough," the king declared. "The other side of the tree."

Merlin rolled his eyes and hauled everything to the new spot. Gwen flashed him a look of sympathy, but she was too amused to speak up. Yet.

"Hmm," Arthur mused. "I think there might be too much windfall. Try on the other side of the stream, Merlin; it'll be cooler over there."

"Won't do anything for all that hot air."

"What was that?"

"I said you've got a leaf in your hair."

Arthur frowned and ran a perplexed hand through his hair. Gwen snorted quietly and hurried to Merlin before the king could figure out that his hair was perfectly clean.

"I think that right here is perfect, Merlin," Guinevere said, ending the torment. "Thank you."

Merlin dropped everything to the ground with a loud sigh of relief and began to spread out the picnic.

"Come on, Merlin," Arthur prodded. "We don't have all day."

"Perfection takes time. I need absolute concentration," Merlin replied as he angled the pillows just so.

"So sorry to break your concentration Merlin!" Arthur shouted. "But there is something I need that only you can give me!"

Almost finished, the warlock glanced up with a quizzical look. "What's that?"

Much more calmly, the king replied, "Your absence."

Merlin wrinkled his nose in protest, but did as he was told and left the king and not-quite-queen-yet to their own devices, mumbling about clotpoles and underappreciation. Gwen, at least, was thoughtful enough to give him a grateful smile, which made it feel a bit better. If all went well, she might even manage to cajole Arthur into smiling on the way back.

* * *

The afternoon passed quietly. Merlin didn't go far––if he wasn't within shouting distance whenever Arthur decided the picnic was over, he would probably be carrying everything back without the help of a horse––but he was far enough away that he neither intruded nor was intruded upon. Once he was certain that he wouldn't be called for anything else, he curled up against a tree and fell into a light doze, something he usually didn't have the time or place to manage.

And like all good things, it ended far too soon.

"Merlin." He was being shaken awake, roughly but not painfully, and he recognized Arthur's voice before he even realized that he'd been sleeping.

Merlin blinked and looked around blearily. The king was standing over him, pressing a finger to his lips to… be quiet? Tensing for danger, Merlin scrambled to his feet.

"What's happening?" he hissed. "What's out there?"

"Shut up, Merlin; there's nothing! Be quiet!"

Arthur was entirely calm and relaxed. Merlin's eyes narrowed.

"What's going on?" the warlock asked.

"Gwen's sleeping."

Merlin blinked again. "I don't understand."

"Nothing new there, then. Come on. And be quiet."

Bemused, Merlin followed on Arthur's heels, under the oak tree and across the stream to the haphazard spread of the picnic––and to Guinevere, who was snoring softly amidst the pillows. Arthur gestured frantically to keep silent, pointing at the picnic in general and mouthing 'clean it up.' Merlin cocked his head, almost asking how exactly Arthur intended to get Gwen back to Camelot without waking her up, but then thought better of it and simply did as he was told. The servant bundled up the items while the king moved them onto the horses.

Gwen stirred when Merlin began cleaning up the food closest to her. Arthur was just out of earshot and facing the other way, so the warlock acted quickly; leaning into Gwen's view, Merlin put a finger to his lips.

"Merlin?" Gwen whispered sleepily. "What's going on?"

"Shh," Merlin soothed. "Just lay there. Arthur will have me in the stocks if he knows I woke you up."

"What's happening?"

Merlin grinned. "I think he's going to try and carry you back to Camelot. Asleep. Or, at least, he's hoping to."

Gwen chuckled disbelievingly. "All the way back to Camelot?"

"Yes, now shh. Go to sleep, he's coming back."

Guinevere bit back a smile and closed her eyes. By the time Arthur returned, she had arranged herself into the very picture of elegant slumber. Merlin could still see her barely-contained smile when Arthur slipped gentle arms under her knees and shoulders to hoist her up, holding her close to his chest as if she weighed nothing at all, and carried her to the horses. Merlin scampered ahead and brought Arthur's horse to kneel down, making the mount infinitely easier for both king and fiancé, and was promptly shooed off to take care of the other two horses.

To her credit, Gwen kept up the fake sleep for the ride back. Although Merlin couldn't see her from where he rode behind, he had a clear view of Arthur's face for the entire journey. The young warlock wasn't sure what exactly he had hoped to see––tranquility, happiness, peace, some combination thereof––but he hadn't expected Arthur to look so… somber. He held Gwen gently, like he always did, but he looked at her the same way he looked at his subjects: with regret. The same look that had been haunting his face for months. The sight of it frustrated Merlin to no end, because the afternoon was supposed to make that look disappear. If Gwen couldn't get through to him, Merlin didn't know what could.

The evening passed quietly once the three of them returned to Camelot proper. Almost too quietly. Once the horses were stabled and settled and the plates and blankets returned to their proper places, Merlin returned to Arthur's chambers to find his friend once again staring listlessly out the window. With so many repairs and projects in the city on the edge of completion, there was little for Arthur to do tonight other than sit and wait––and that was a duty he took far too literally.

"Something interesting out there?" Merlin asked, trying his best to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he began preparing the room for the night.

Arthur didn't answer.

Merlin sighed. "Not that I'm complaining, but you've usually got something else you want by now. Second dinner. Different pillows. Bedtime story. Security blanket."

"Yeah, sure." The king continued to stare out the window

Merlin frowned. "Guinevere."

Arthur blinked and looked at Merlin. "What was that?"

Let it never be said that Merlin didn't know a magic word for Arthur. "Nothing. Just, she seemed happy when we got back."

"Oh. Yes."

"Not telling me to shut up yet?"

"I'd be very much obliged if you did." Arthur ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders, seemingly brought out his trance.

"Do you need anything else, sire?"

Arthur shook his head, but was looking down and toeing the floor in that awkward way that meant he had something on the tip of his tongue. Merlin waited patiently, hoping to the gods that Arthur would open up about his troubles without the warlock needing to go digging.

"Do you think I'm a good king, Merlin?"

Merlin blinked, somewhat disbelieving. "What? That's what you've been so quiet about?"

"I'm serious, Merlin."

"Yes, you're a good king, Arthur." It felt as if he had just asked Merlin whether or not the sky was blue. "Of course you are."

Arthur was quiet for a moment. Then, "I haven't even been king for two years, and we've already seen a siege. After how many others in the past years? Two? Three?"

Merlin's face hardened. "No. You can't blame yourself for what happened. Morgana was after the throne long before you became king. She brought it on, and if you hadn't become king then she would have still tried to take Camelot over. You didn't invite her, Arthur; you stopped her."

"Hmm." Arthur glanced back out the window for another moment, then heaved a great sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. He looked exhausted, not by any physical strain but by the long, repeated strain of a king that assumed responsibility for every single death in his kingdom.

After a small, empty silence, Arthur switched topics. "Gwen and I are getting married."

"I had gathered that, yes. Are you going to bed?"

"Yes." He began to shed his daywear. "We're thinking at the end of summer, before fall. To celebrate the inner walls being completed. If Leon's right, they'll be bringing in the harvest round that time, too."

"Oh! You mean––you're actually getting married!" Merlin didn't even care that his voice squeaked.

Arthur gave him a quizzical look. "What does that mean, we're 'actually' getting married?"

"No no––I mean––it's just, you've always sort of talked about it like it was going to happen, but didn't really do much for it. I'm not doubting you, Arthur; I'm just glad that you're finally making it happen."

"I'm sure." Arthur held out his sword belt.

Merlin couldn't suppress a subtle shiver when he took it; even through the leather of the scabbard, the sword thrummed happily in the hands of its creator. The sorcerer almost tried to shush the thing before he remembered that Arthur couldn't hear the weapon's magic anyway. The king was as uncaring as ever, already pulling off his shirt, and Merlin hoped that… nope, nevermingd the shirt went flying. Merlin huffed in annoyance and picked it up.

"Do you think that Morgana is dead?" Arthur asked suddenly, halfway through the buckles of one boot.

Merlin paused. "Morgana? What do you mean?"

Arthur stilled, looking blankly at the air in front of him. "The wound she sustained… I've seen its like before. It's always a fatal blow, after a while. But she shouldn't have been able to move with such an injury, and there was no body…"

"Morgana's strong. She might have been able to get out of the castle before it took her. Adrenaline, it can work wonders on the body; I've seen a man––"

"Merlin."

Merlin stopped.

"I've heard all that before. That's what they all said after… it happened."

"Yes, sire."

"You, Merlin. Do you think that Morgana is dead?"

Merlin looked down. "... No."

Arthur nodded, unsurprised, and finished taking off his boots. Those went flying, too, but Merlin was quick enough to catch them this time. Then the king went still, not out of reaction or danger, but out of… weariness. Weariness and pain and guilt and fear. In that single look, Merlin realized what it was that was weighing so heavily on the Arthur's heart.

He was afraid. Of Morgana.

"Merlin," Arthur said softly, almost too softly for Merlin to pick up. "Do you think Morgana will try again?"

"... Yes."

There was a long silence as they both returned to what they were doing: Arthur to undressing, Merlin to setting things in their proper places.

When the time came to set down the sword, Merlin spoke again. "We'll win, you know. If… when she tries again."

"Perhaps." Arthur didn't look up. His tone said that he didn't believe it.

"We will, Arthur. Do not doubt yourself. You have been our leader for so long already, and you have never led us astray. Morgana cannot change that."

"But Morgana will try again. And there will be more death when she does. It's just… I've been thinking. If there's something, anything that could possibly stop her." His body slackened and his eyes saw nothing; he was retreating into himself, thinking about… something more.

"There's something else," Merlin realized. "I know that look."

"It's nothing. Just a word Morgana said when we found her."

"A word. Magic?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know. It sounded like one, but… she used it differently. It was the name of something, I think, but the way she said it… she was afraid. Not of me––never of me––but of something else. I'd never heard it before, but she was terrified."

"That doesn't sound like Morgana."

"No, I don't think so either. At least I wouldn't have, had I not seen it for myself."

"What was she scared of?"

Arthur paused, as if hesitant to say the word out loud. "Emrys," he finally murmured. "Something called Emrys."

The floor dropped out from under Merlin's feet, and he could have sworn he was falling. The lights of the room began to spin, lancing straight to his gut and very nearly making him vomit. Merlin was vaguely thankful that he had already put everything down, because he would have almost certainly dropped them otherwise. The sound of that word on Arthur's lips… it hit him like a physical blow. He hadn't been prepared. He hadn't been prepared for Arthur to say that name.

In another heartbeat, cold rationality slammed down over the whirling fear and sickness. Control, it demanded. Whenever his magic was seen or guessed at, Merlin was usually so good at handling the fear––both others' and his own. Being called Emrys didn't surprise him anymore.

But… Arthur.

Merlin was staring at the wall, facing away from his king. There was a small crack in the stone, and that crack was what he focused on; he needed to reel back in. Breathe. Had he stopped breathing? In. Out. In. Out. He was alright. He was here, in the present moment.

"Have you heard of it, Merlin?"

Through sheer force of will, Merlin commanded his face to remain neutral as he turned back to look at Arthur.

The king was still looking down, his face pulled into perplexed contemplation. He hadn't even glanced up at the question, and Merlin suddenly forgot what he had just been asked.

"Sorry, what?"

"That word, Merlin. Emrys."

He was more prepared this time, but the sound of Arthur's voice handling that name still knocked the wind out of him.

"No," Merlin managed. "Never heard of it."

"Gaius has never said anything about it?"

"No. Never."

Arthur hmmed and slowly made his way towards the bed. Once he'd turned away, Merlin's senses came rushing back to him. He was alright. He wasn't in danger. Arthur had only heard the word in passing. He didn't know it had anything to do with anything. He didn't even know that it was a person; he'd called it a something. He knew nothing. There was no reason to feel so terrified.

"It's probably nothing," Merlin said, scratching his ear compulsively and following Arthur to his bedside. He still needed to make sure that there was water on the end table. "We both know Morgana. You can't trust what she says."

"This was different, though. Morgana lies, but she's proud. She would never make herself look weak on purpose, nevermind afraid."

"Are you sure?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes. That's the Uther in her, even if she'd rather die than admit it."

"Then… if she is scared of something, maybe this Emrys," he tried not to stumble over the name, "is even worse than she is. Probably... probably magical."

Arthur pulled the blankets up to his chest and settled against the pillows. "Maybe."

"It's probably nothing."

Arthur sighed. "I know, just…"

"Just?"

"If Morgana is alive, and if she is going to try again, I know that she doesn't fear me. She doesn't fear my knights. If she doesn't fear us, then why wouldn't she try again? We may fight her off again, yes, but at what cost? There are always casualties. The people of Camelot have been through so much already, and I don't want this to become a war."

"You can't protect everyone, Arthur."

"I'm the king. It's my job to protect everyone."

"You have protected this kingdom from danger for years, with and without that crown on your head. The people know that. The people trust you, Arthur, and they know that you are not to blame for Morgana."

"It doesn't matter if they blame me or not; Morgana still came, and she still slaughtered. If she's still alive, she's going to try again. I'm certain of it."

"That's not something you can control. We will fight her off."

"But what if I could control it? If Emrys is something we could control––" Merlin's heart skipped a beat "––something we could wield for ourselves, would it matter whether or not it is magical? If there is something in this world that makes Morgana afraid, isn't it my duty to see if we can somehow make her afraid, too?"

"It is your duty to rule," Merlin said, swallowing a painful lump in his throat and searching for anything that might change the subject. "What about your wedding? Seeing you happy would give the people what they need most: hope."

"The people need safety more than hope."

"They do have safety. In you. In Guinevere. In the knights. They don't need… whatever 'Emrys' is. They need you, Arthur."

Arthur looked up and frowned at him. "Are you pretending to be wise again so you can leave?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, sire. But so long as I'm being wise, how about this: weddings are an excellent time to give servants a day off."

Arthur chuckled. "Never lose your humor, Merlin."

"Why? Afraid if I did, people would notice yours?"

Arthur threw a pillow, so clumsy and tired that Merlin didn't even have to dodge it.

"Go on, Merlin. I know you want to get on with… whatever it is you do at this time of night."

"Wait, what does that mean?"

"It means get out or I'll throw the pitcher."

"Yes, sire! Good night, sire!"

"Isn't with you around."


	2. Never

All things considered, Gaius was the sort of person who like things to be on time. Perhaps it was simply a symptom of being a physician––a cure too late was, of course, no cure at all––but there was a certain joy he felt whenever things settled neatly into a schedule.

Merlin, on the other hand, was one of those people who simply could not keep to a schedule to save his life. It was not through any fault of his own, Gaius knew; danger wasn't something that kept a schedule, and since it was Merlin that was always running around to keep Camelot safe, it usually allowed Gaius to attend his own schedule without much trouble. The old physician was more grateful for the peace than anything, but he was even more grateful on those few nights when Merlin actually managed to get to supper on time. And so when Gaius heard his ward's footsteps in the hall while their food was still hot, he was quite prepared to be happy about it.

However, Gaius knew something was wrong the moment Merlin walked through the door.

"Merlin?"

The young sorcerer was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused. He walked with quick, jerky movements, but his gaze was unfocused and blank. He didn't appear to have heard Gaius speak; he simply stood there in the doorway, swaying oddly, with an expression that was either fear or sickness.

"Merlin!" Gaius said again, more forcefully.

Merlin looked up, blinking. Gaius crossed the room as quickly as he was able.

"Merlin, are you ill? You're white as a sheet." It felt like an odd question, even with the circumstances; although poison and enchantments could knock the young man down easily enough, Merlin had never been _sick_ before––it was one of those things that simply didn't happen.

"Gaius," Merlin said softly. "Something's happened."

Gaius' stomach dropped. "Are you alright, Merlin? Are you injured?"

Merlin shook his head. "No. Not like that."

"Is there danger? Is the king safe?"

"Arthur…" the name seemed to be a struggle for him. "Arthur is fine. They're all fine. It's not… there's no danger."

Gaius sat them both down at the table, took Merlin's head and tilted it up so they could look each other in the eye. Merlin's pupils reacted normally, and when Gaius took his pulse and temperature, there seemed to be nothing amiss.

"What's wrong?" Gaius asked quietly, speaking as he would to a frightened animal.

Merlin looked away. "Arthur, he… we were talking…" He curled in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them close. His arms were shaking.

"Merlin. Look at me. _Look_ at me."

For once, Merlin did as he was told.

"What happened?"

"It's Arthur, Gaius. He… he knows my name."

Gaius blinked. "Hopefully so, considering how long you've been serving him. I would be quite concerned if he _didn't_ know your name."

"No, Gaius, not like that. He…" The boy hesitated and closed his eyes. "He knows my other name. He said it."

"What did he say, Merlin?"

"He said Emrys."

Gaius caught his breath and glanced at the door. He knew that no one would be out and about at this hour, and since there was no angry king currently charging through the door, he could afford to take time in asking the right questions.

"Arthur called you Emrys?"

"Yes. Well, no; he just said the name. He didn't know that it was mine. He didn't know that it was a person, just… a thing. A thing that Morgana is afraid of."

"Morgana is right to be afraid of you."

"He heard it from her. Something she said when we took back Camelot; I don't remember what it was, exactly. Just… he knows, Gaius. He _knows_ _my name."_ Merlin began fidgeting, no doubt itching to get up and move around.

"Merlin, look at me. Be calm."

"I can't be calm, Gaius! He said it! _Arthur_ said it! He knows! Oh no, what if he… If he finds me out, Gaius––"

" _Merlin!"_ The sharpness of Gaius' voice was enough to make Merlin freeze. "You must contain yourself. What does Arthur know about Emrys? Tell me everything."

"Only that Morgana is afraid of it. And that he wants to know what it is."

"He told you this?"

"He wants to know if he can use Emrys as a… I don't know, a weapon? An advantage? Something to keep Morgana from attacking again. He asked me if I had ever heard of it."

"And what did you say?"

"What do you think? Nothing. That I'd never heard the word before."

"Then he truly does know nothing?"

"He knows my name."

Gaius sighed and took his ward's arm. "Come, Merlin. Let's talk over supper."

"But––"

"If he knows nothing of who you really are, then we've nothing to worry about until morning, at least. Come, sit over here and eat. We'll both feel better."

The task of food seemed to ground drag Merlin out of his head and ground him to their surroundings. He was more aware and alert, especially when Gaius pushed a plate of chicken and potatoes under his nose. After a moment's hesitation, Merlin snatched up a fork and began to tear in; hunger, once piqued, became his most immediate concern.

Gaius watched quietly, eating his own food at a slow enough pace that he could observe and think. Even when distracted, Merlin's worry was still clear; it surrounded him like a cloak, merely lying in wait for the young man to slow down before it sunk its claws back in.

And after ten minutes of inhaling his food, Merlin did slow down. The fear returned to the fore, and then Merlin stopped entirely, staring blankly at his almost-empty plate. Gaius set down his fork and leaned closer.

"Are you afraid that Arthur will find you?" Gaius asked softly. "All that he has of you is a name."

"He wants to try," Merlin breathed. "If he finds anything out…"

"... _if_ he finds anything out, what do you would think would happen?"

"He'd cut my head off. Or burn me at the stake. You know what would happen, Gaius."

"You think that _Arthur_ would burn _you_ at the stake? _Really?"_

"I… no. Yes. I don't know. It wouldn't do anything good. Magic is illegal."

"Indeed."

"I can't let it happen. If Arthur finds out, I won't be able to protect him anymore. I _can't_ let him know who I am."

"You do not think he is ready?"

"What do you mean, 'ready?' Ready for what?"

Gaius paused for a moment. "Since the beginning, Merlin, you and I have been waiting. I know that concealing yourself has never been easy; truly, it _shouldn't_ be easy. We have been longing for a time to come when magic is accepted freely, and those who practice it are not persecuted. When such a time comes, you will not need to conceal yourself. Since the day you arrived, you have been waiting for the moment you could stand before Arthur without fear and show him what you really are."

Merlin looked away and was silent for a long while. Then, "That was a dream, Gaius."

"A dream we have both been chasing for years now. Arthur has been king for some time, and has been nothing but fair. Do you not think, perhaps, that the time is drawing nearer?"

Merlin shook his head, although the gesture was clearly uncertain.

"If not soon, Merlin, then when?"

"Never." The response was suddenly immediate, decisive. "Arthur can never learn who I really am."

Gaius blink in surprise. Against his will, the old physician found his heart sinking. " _Never?_ That is a strong word, Merlin."

"Magic took both his parents. One of them was taken by my hand."

"Morgana's hand." The word ' _never'_ remained fixed in Gaius' mind, even as he tried to keep focus on what Merlin was saying.

"Arthur doesn't know that. And if he knew that it was me who tried to heal his father, do you think he would care?"

Arthur could _never_ know. Not _someday,_ not _when he's ready,_ but _never._ "Arthur does not seek retribution for that night, of that I am certain."

"How?"

"Arthur has asked me about the sorcerer. Don't give me that look; I said nothing he could use. But he does know that you were trying to help, and that the death of his father had nothing to do with you in the end. I daresay he feels guilty about his feelings towards what happened."

Merlin shook his head. "That doesn't mean he would allow magic. Or me. He _cannot_ know who I am, Gaius."

"From what you've told me, it seems that he doesn't."

"But if Morgana returns…"

" _If,_ Merlin. If Morgana returns, you will thwart her as you always have. She does not know Emrys. Why would Arthur? Where would he possibly learn of you? And if Morgana remains hidden, what purpose could he possibly have to try?"

Merlin was silent. Gaius reached out and grabbed his ward's arm warmly. "Merlin, you know that I wish for nothing more than your happiness. But there are many people in this land who know the name Emrys, and have no idea that it belongs to you. I know that my council does not change anything, but it is my belief that, until Arthur knows something more substantial, you are in no danger."

"He might come to you."

"Agravaine also came to me, you remember. I gave him nothing then, and I will give Arthur nothing now if he comes to me in a similar manner."

Merlin sighed heavily and leaned back, staring at the ceiling for a few moments.

"In any case, your work will not wait for you," Gaius said. "You still need to get up early tomorrow, and worrying will change nothing."

Merlin looked the old physician in the eye, tilting his head. "... You really think that nothing will happen?"

"I only think that the mere word 'Emrys' is not a death sentence. It could turn out to be nothing; if there is no cause to look for a meaning, then Arthur might very well forget about it."

"You mean if Morgana doesn't reappear."

"I… yes, that is what I mean."

Merlin nodded gravely. "If she doesn't come back, then… yes." He sighed heavily and slouched against the table. "You're right. I'm thinking too much. Thanks." He scooped the last bits of potato into his mouth and stood, picking up his plate and cup.

Gaius shook his head. "No, leave them. I'll take care of the dishes tonight."

"But you've already cooked."

"You can make it up tomorrow. Sleep, Merlin; you look dead on your feet, and it'd be best if you went to work in the morning without anything different about you."

Merlin smiled––a strained, tired smile, but a smile nonetheless––and nodded.

"Thank you, Gaius."

"Go on; hurry upstairs before I change my mind."

"Good night, Gaius."

"Sleep well."

Gaius didn't sleep well that night. If he dozed off, he did not remember it; all he remembered was staring blankly at the ceiling, trapped by the endless, inexplicable ache of the word _never._

* * *

Merlin seemed better the next morning. Perhaps a bit less cheerful than usual, but he didn't let the previous night's happening weigh him down; there was nothing odd about him that he couldn't blame on poor sleep. With bread and cheese in hand to serve as breakfast, Merlin sprinted off to begin the day's work, leaving Gaius to his own routine tasks of preparing draughts, checking his inventory of medicines, making lists of what needed replenishing, and all those menial things that he usually did in the morning. It kept his mind off the previous night's conversation, at least.

And as far as mornings went, this one proved to be relatively calm. There was no frantic pounding at his door for an emergency, not even a quick visit for help with a cold; most everyone in the castle seemed to be in good health, and Gaius was free to organize his shelves to perfection, clean his worktable of all the clutter that had built up in the past weeks, and even to spend an hour working on his new medical manual, _A Treatise on the Human Spine._ After the whirlwind of sickness and injuries that had followed on the heels of Morgana's siege, the quiet morning was nothing less than paradise.

Merlin tumbled back in sometime around noon, worn and sweaty but in considerably higher spirits than he had been at the beginning of the morning.

"From your grin, I take it that Arthur has not asked any more pressing questions of you?"

"What? No, he hasn't." A brief shadow fell across his face, but it was gone in another moment. "But he's summoned you to dinner tonight. He's summoned a lot of people. I think he's going to announce the marriage to Guinevere."

"Announce it? I don't think it will be news to anyone."

"Yes, but they've set a date. End of summer, they say, after the walls are repaired."

"Ah, you mean they're _actually_ getting married."

"That's what I said! Arthur wanted me to make sure you'd be there."

"Then you've nothing to worry about. Who am I to turn down food that I don't have to cook?"

"Great. I'll see you there, then."

"You're not staying for lunch?"

"No, Arthur's got me fetching a new helmet for him."

"Here, then––take this." Gaius pushed a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese into Merlin's arms. "He may work you to the bone, but I will not let him starve you."

Merlin grinned. "Thanks, Gaius." Another moment and he was dashing back out the door, a whirl of activity that vanished down the hall.

Gaius continued to gaze at the doorway long after his ward's footsteps had run out of earshot. He mulled over Merlin's cheer––something that had felt suspiciously forced––and the fear that had possessed him the night before. Gaius himself was not a man made easily afraid, nor did he make it his business to judge others' personal decisions, but there was one word that stuck in his mind, humming like a fly for his attention.

 _Never._

The concept in itself was one Gaius had difficulty getting his head around. For seven years Merlin had toiled behind the scenes of Camelot. For seven years Merlin had lived with an invisible sword over his head, facing the risk of execution every day for no other reason than the fact that his friends needed help. For seven years Merlin had sacrificed blood and family for the sake of a spoiled, impetuous bully who had, in time, grown into the strongest, most merciful king that the land had ever known. The whole of Camelot thought Merlin an incompetent idiot, but for seven years Gaius had seen the truth with his own eyes: whenever Camelot was in danger, Merlin became like a man possessed, impervious to hunger, pain or exhaustion until all was made right. So much given, and so little received in return.

For seven years, the two of them had survived on the dream of that perfect, far-off " _One day." One day, they will see you for what you truly are. One day, Arthur will know of all you've done for him. One day, you will walk openly without fear of execution. One day, Camelot will know the name of its protector._ Gaius had seen Merlin through it all, keeping them both afloat through the sorrow, guilt, exhaustion and rage by the thought of that great, distant " _One day."_

One day.

" _Arthur can never learn who I really am."_

From Arthur's mouth, Merlin had been torn apart by the sound of his Druid name. From Merlin's mouth, Gaius was torn apart by the sound of _never._ Hopeless. Merciless. Uncompromising. To Merlin, that one day would _never_ arrive––no room for negotiation or belief, just… never. He would never be free. He would never be seen for who he truly was. He would never escape the heavy, heart-consuming lie that they had been struggling under for seven years. Merlin had spoken it without hesitation––as if spending the rest of his life in the darkness was something he had already resigned himself to long ago.

As if he knew with absolute certainty that their _one day_ would never come.

 _Never._

It was fear that Gaius felt at the sound of that word. Fear and sharp, stabbing grief––for Merlin, for all the hope that had been draining away right under Gaius' nose, for the idea that his surrogate son would spend the rest of his life hiding under the mask of a manservant, a mask that had already caused him so much pain. Once upon a time, Merlin had been bright and optimistic, never once doubting the world they were both trying to build. Now… now, the lack of hope echoed like an empty cavern.

Destiny was something that had never played a great role in Gaius' life. There was no great task that had been set for him by the gods, no predetermined path for him to walk. Merlin was the closest thing he would ever have to a son, yes, but there had been no great prophecies about that––that relationship was theirs and no one else's, forged not by fate, but by decisions and care and years of trust. Gaius had no grand destiny, and was glad of it; sharing Merlin's burdens was quite enough, as it was.

But sometimes, out of nowhere, destiny would present itself suddenly and without warning. Many years ago, destiny had walked through Gaius' door wearing a blue shirt, red neckerchief and idiotic grin.

And now, seven years later, as he rifled listlessly through his potions trying to cope with the word _never_ , destiny came again to knock on his door.

 _Knock. Knock. Knock._ Hesitant, uncertain of purpose; Gaius knew that pattern quite well. Someone wanted him, but didn't know whether or not they would be too much of a bother.

"Come in!" Gaius called out, immensely grateful for the distraction. "Don't hover out there like a nervous hen; I've got a free afternoon if you need me!"

The door creaked open, and after another few moments of hesitation, Arthur Pendragon stepped into the room. Gaius looked at the king in… what was not surprise. Gaius was not surprised at all, and it felt strange.

"Sire, come in." Gaius shuffled a few heavy books off the bench to give the king a place to sit. "If I'd know you'd come calling, I'd have swept the floors."

"There's no need for that," Arthur reassured. "I don't expect I'll be here long."

"Oh? Is something troubling you, sire?"

Once again, a hesitation. A hesitation so heavy, Gaius knew in a single instant exactly what the king had come to him for.

"Gaius." Voice filled with doubt, shoulders slack and eyes unfocused. "I know that you have knowledge of… many things. Things that others do not."

"I do my best to be informed, sire. As a physician, it could not be otherwise."

"Of course. As a physician."

"Is there something on your mind, sire?"

"Yes, a question. Well, not really a question, only… there is something that I have heard, and I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on it."

"Indeed, sire." Gaius leaned against the table patiently.

"A word. Something Morgana said."

"It is Morgana's words that weigh so heavily on your mind?"

"Just one." Arthur tilted his head back to regard the ceiling for a few moments that might have been awkward, had Gaius not known exactly what he was going to say next. "Have you ever heard of something called Emrys?"

When speaking of fate, there was always the question of whether it was destiny that influenced someone's decisions, or their decisions that influenced their destiny. Such discussions had been commonplace before the Great Purge, but Gaius had never paid much mind to them. He knew very little on the matter, engaged as he was in the healing arts, so nowadays, all he could really do was sit back whenever Merlin ran across those questions and watch the young man sort them out himself. _It's his destiny, it's my destiny, it's their destiny, the time is come––_ those were all for Merlin to figure out and handle.

But here, watching the thoughtful king before him, Gaius could see destiny quite clearly.

He couldn't betray Merlin. He loved the boy to the very marrow of his bones; there was nothing Arthur could do to change that. The truth remained impossible to speak, because really, the whole truth of the word "Emrys" was so deep and vast that a week would not be enough time to explain it all. He would not answer with honesty; of that he was certain.

He could deny, like he had denied Agravaine. End it here and now, make certain that Arthur forgot the word entirely and never again put any thought to it. If he did so, Merlin would remain in that lonely, hollow darkness of _never_ for the rest of his days. Merlin would never be exposed or seen for what he was. And after Gaius died, there wouldn't be a single soul in Camelot who knew the truth.

But that, too, was not something Gaius could allow.

"I'm afraid I don't speak the language, sire," the old man said.

Arthur blinked. "The language."

"Yes. I do believe I have heard it in the past, but it was very, very long ago, many years before the Great Purge."

"It's part of a language?"

"Yes, sire. Distinctly Druidic."

"Druidic. Do you know if it's the name of an object of some sort? Perhaps a force?"

"I'm afraid I don't. The Druids are a very secretive people, as I'm sure you know. If it _was_ some sort of object or force, I could really only guess at what it might be."

"And what would your guess be? If you had to make one."

"Well, knowing what little I do about the Druids, the only real guess I could make would be that in involves magic."

"Hmm." The king fell into thought for another few moments. Then, "And you're certain that is all you know?"

"I can't really _know_ anything. These are only guesses, sire. The Druids are very good at keeping to themselves."

Arthur nodded. "Yes, of course." Then, rubbing his face tiredly, the king turned to leave. "I'm sorry for taking up your time; I'm not quite sure what I was expecting to hear."

"I wish I could have been of more help."

"No, not your fault. I wish I had more specific questions to ask."

"Is there something else I could help with, sire? I've noticed you favoring your right leg."

"That? Oh, nothing; hit my shin on the way over. Nothing to worry about."

"Of course. If you _do_ need anything, though…"

"Then I will be sure to come to you. Thank you, Gaius."

And with that, the king departed. Gaius watched the door close behind him, wondering what effect he had just wrought upon destiny. He had neither encouraged nor denied, but he had, at least, acknowledged what Arthur had come to him for. _Emrys._ Arthur had as good as dismissed it on his way out; Gaius was certain that there would be no more questions––at least, not now. He didn't know if there would ever be more questions, or if Merlin's fate was indeed to remain hidden, but he knew that he had played his part.

Now, at least, he knew that Arthur would not forget Emrys.

* * *

Wow, so much positive feedback! I'm so glad you guys like it! I'll be doing my best to update at a slow and steady pace, but I'm not quite sure yet what that'll look like I'm thinking probably once a week, perhaps more if I'm really in the groove. So many thanks need to go out to my wonderful beta Wryter501; check those stories out if you've got a moment.


	3. Three Years

The end of summer came to Camelot with excitement and fanfare. Arthur was used to fall being a great swirl of activity, regardless of what celebrations took place, but never before had he seen the season change with such grandeur. After Morgana's siege, the king supposed he had grown used to an endless tide of bad news––which was why, when the time came, summer's end caught him completely off-guard.

Despite past misfortunes, it seemed that every village in the kingdom was being blessed with a strong harvest. When scouts were dispatched to ferret out anything that might prove problematic when winter arrived, they seemed at a genuine loss to find anything; the defeat of Helios' army had been so ferocious that most bandit nests were already moving off as quickly as they were able. Arthur wasn't so naive to think that they were gone for good, but he could be almost certain that they wouldn't trouble anyone this winter. The outlying villages were unlikely to see any manmade threat until the new year, and everyone knew it. With plentiful food, safety assured and a fresh military victory at their backs, the entire kingdom was in high spirits.

And naturally, when news spread of the king's impending marriage, it seemed that the entire kingdom wanted to attend. Peasants flocked to Camelot, burdened with the best of their yield and the biggest of their livestock. They came to sell, trade and barter the surplus with the people of the city, and the weeks leading up to the wedding saw the population double in size. As the last few bricks were set into Camelot's damaged walls, the whole of Camelot was churning with pilgrims exchanging food and animals, living and laughing with a joy that Arthur had almost forgotten existed.

The wedding also drew in plenty of visitors from other kingdoms. Arthur's skill at making friends was made apparent when the guest rooms in the palace filled to the brim. Arthur even came to discover a distant cousin by the name of Gareth, who presided over a small lordship called Tintagel––a somewhat stuffy, overly polite man that was apparently related through Uther's side of the family. Merlin took an immediate dislike to him, as Merlin sometimes did, but Arthur didn't have the time or energy to care about it since Merlin also decided to go into another streak of tavern visits after Gareth's arrival. He only just managed to be there when Arthur actually needed him, always with an oddly exhausted smile and a "Sorry, lost track of time."

Gareth of Tintagel quietly vanished on the day of the wedding. When Arthur remarked upon it to Merlin, his manservant merely shrugged, yawned tiredly and said, "Maybe he's gone to live with the fairies."

Arthur rolled his eyes as he began the long, tiresome process of getting into his wedding attire. "Fairies don't exist, Merlin."

Merlin coughed awkwardly.

The wedding itself was long and arduous; since so many traditions were being broken by Arthur's marriage to a blacksmith's daughter, it had been generally agreed upon that they should uphold every other tradition that they possibly could. That meant ceremony. Long, arduous, utterly and ridiculously long-winded ceremonies. Arthur had been properly stunned by the sight of Guinevere in her wedding dress, and she properly stunned by the sight of him, but that mutual amazement had quickly worn off under the sheer _length_ of the wedding vows. Arthur had seen them already, of course, but reading the words on paper and listening them being spoken were two entirely different things. Arthur and Guinevere were required to stand on a dais in the throne room, holding hands and looking lovingly into each other's eyes as Geoffrey recited the rites.

Five minutes into the ceremony, the two of them were having one of those silent conversations with their eyes as they tried their best to support one another through the agonizing _boredom._ Ten minutes in, they were rolling their eyes and trying desperately to look like they weren't. By the time twenty minutes had passed, they were both struggling to avoid looking at Merlin, who was making silly faces at them in the most unhelpful way possible.

When the time _finally_ came to say their piece, neither husband nor wife could declare their love fast enough.

The moment they kissed, all that exhaustion slipped away like water. In a single heartbeat, Arthur looked at Guinevere––his wife, his queen, _his Guinevere––_ and it didn't matter what had happened before. The world fell into place, and there was no enemy in the world that Arthur could not have overcome for her sake.

When the time came for Guinevere to take the throne, the whole of Camelot shouted its approval. _Long live the queen._ Arthur learned later that it hadn't just been his imagination––as soon as the chanting had begun in the throne room, the entire castle had joined in, followed by those outside, which led to the upper city and then the lower city until the entirety of Camelot was bellowing _long live the queen._ Plenty of the foreign dignitaries were puzzled by the overwhelming support the common-born woman received, but that support was still undeniable; for those who lived in Camelot, there was no doubt that Guinevere was the only woman meant to wear the title of queen.

The celebrations were lavish, engaging the entire city in a great tangle of food, music and dancing. After so long repairing Morgana's damage, the people seemed ready to celebrate as hard as they possibly could. Between entertaining the dignitaries, trying to keep a handle on the spread of celebration and trying to enjoy the celebration himself, Arthur was dismayed when he was left with no time to be with Guinevere; the entire feast was a long string of congratulations and gifts and pseudo-diplomacy, and as if that wasn't enough, _Merlin had disappeared_ _again_. By midnight, the thought of putting Merlin in the stocks was the only thing to keep Arthur from snapping. Oh, he was going to make Merlin _pay_ for leaving him alone with a feast full of monarchs…

Until the celebrations were over, and he found Merlin waiting for him with a catlike grin. The manservant merely waited patiently for Arthur to stop threatening him, then looked around to make sure they were alone and gave a short, simple, "Follow me." He had that look about him and tone of voice that let Arthur know this was one of his not-idiotic moments, and so he allowed Merlin to escape punishment until he knew what was going on.

It turned out that there was a secret room in the library. In the farthest corner of the east wing, a bookshelf existed that could rotate around into a small, completely unknown alcove safe from prying eyes. Not only had Merlin apparently known about it for years––a story that he explained with " _Was looking for a book for Gaius, and, uh, some things happened,"_ ––but he'd managed to clean it up, and, recently, move in candles, food, wine, a mattress and Arthur's own pillows and sheets. Pillows and sheets that Guinevere was already lounging on.

Merlin showed Arthur how the door worked and swore on his life that not another soul in Camelot knew of the room's existence. The king knew that angry councilmen were nothing compared to the dangers his manservant had braved in the past; when Merlin promised to cover Arthur's absence, Arthur believed him. Aside from regular visits to bring more food, candles and wine, Arthur and Guinevere would remain alone and undisturbed for as long as they wished.

Most of the time, Merlin was an incompetent idiot. But sometimes, like at that exact moment, Arthur was once again reminded why he would never want any other manservant.

* * *

The fall passed quickly. With so much food coming in, there was always something more to be done, especially for a king's manservant who was also occupied with keeping assassins out of everyone's business.

In truth, Merlin was a bit surprised at how few attempts there were on Arthur's life after the wedding. There had been Gareth of Tintagel, yes, but the man was no mastermind and his alliance with the Sidhe had been both obvious and easily thwarted. Aside from him, there had been two others––a distant noble who was somehow related to Arthur, and then a shrewd countess who'd tried to use a rough, ancient love spell on the king––but neither of them had even begun executing their plans before Merlin caught wind and quietly put a stop to it. Really, compared to everything Merlin had faced in the past, it was all practically routine; without the threat of Morgana or Agravaine breathing down his neck, a fairy, a love spell and an assassin were hardly challenges.

Which was why he kept his guard up for the one person who actually posed a threat. As fall passed and harvest season carried on, Merlin spent his nights looking for anyone who might be carrying information to their real enemy. Although he did accidentally learn of a pair of eloping lovers, it seemed that Morgana had no new informants in the city. Yet.

Merlin told absolutely no one of what he was doing, not that he usually made a point of declaring his actions. Gaius suspected, of course, but it was normal enough by now that there were no questions––something Merlin was glad of, because he didn't think he'd be able to explain it if he tried.

Morgana haunted his thoughts daily––as did Arthur's words about her. Every night was a search for evidence, or else it was used to lay down magical wards and alarms. Useless against common folk, but possibly the difference between finding or losing a sorcerer; when it came to Morgana, Merlin was unwilling to take risks. If there was even the slightest chance that she was alive, then there was an equal chance that she would make another try for Camelot and for Arthur. Merlin tried to convince himself Camelot's safety was the only reason he worked so hard to be ready. Some nights, he even made himself believe it.

Other nights, Merlin slept in a tight ball as he dreamt of all the knights of Camelot armed with spears and crossbows, loosing the hunting dogs and laughing merrily as they chased down their elusive Emrys.

In those dreams, it was always Arthur that made the killing shot.

What little time Merlin had to himself was spent planning. He didn't doubt for a second that Morgana would return eventually, and he knew the way Arthur felt about her; the moment she reared her head, there would be no rest for Camelot until a force was found to match her power.

A force that Arthur now knew the name of.

Only when winter arrived did Merlin relax. With snow on the ground and travel made difficult, winter was perhaps the only time the young warlock _could_ relax; no one had ever tried to kill the king during the cold season. Merlin kept an eye out, of course, but Yule came and went without even a single murder. In the warmth of the citadel, Arthur spent almost all of his time with Gwen, wrapped up in the blissful euphoria of their new marriage. The fact that they commonly spent all day in their chambers made Merlin's job quite easy, and their happiness infected him against his will; try as he might, his worries grew further and further from his mind. Arthur was far, far too happy to bother worrying about Morgana, which meant that he was far, far too happy to even be thinking about Emrys. Almost every week, Merlin prayed to whatever god was listening that his king had forgotten the word entirely.

Spring came, and the warlock's guard went back up. Morgana had been given three seasons to recover––if she was going to make her play, she was going to make it soon. The nightmares returned, tormenting him with images of being trapped and executed by his friends, and Merlin waited with bated breath for Arthur to give the order: _Morgana will return. It's time to find Emrys._

No such order came.

Merlin prepared, and he waited.

And he waited.

The first murder attempt came somewhat late in the season, although not from Morgana. Whatever fairy had allied with Gareth the previous fall, that same fairy tried again, and failed again. After that came a thief who'd made the mistake of summoning spirits to aid in his theft, which forced Merlin to very quickly learn about exorcisms and then spend three nights without sleep trying to capture the possessed thief long enough to perform one. He succeeded eventually, barely escaping with the contained spirits before Percival and Gwaine showed up to throw the thief in the dungeon.

The next few weeks were an exhausted haze of trying to catch up on his sleep without Arthur becoming suspicious. He barely managed to stay useful during the remodeling of the council chambers, but was lucid enough to be amazed by Arthur's new pride and joy: a great table, perfectly round and larger than any Merlin had ever seen. "Equality," was Arthur's explanation, and when the knights sat around the table, it was one of those moments that struck Merlin to the core with the resounding feeling of _yes, this is what was meant to be._

But Morgana remained conspicuous in her absence.

 _Fine,_ Merlin decided when spring came to an end. _It just means she's preparing for summer._

Summer was always the most active time for threats on Arthur's life, and this one was no different. King Odin sent another assassin, then particularly young and naive Sidhe tried to enchant Leon, and then some poor fool came home to Camelot and discovered he'd been bitten by a werewolf, but they all came to Merlin's attention before anything truly disastrous happened. Try as he might, Merlin simply could not find Morgana's influence in anything.

But even without it, summer brought worries of its own. Three days after Midsummer's eve, a sorcerer was brought to the court in chains.

She was a thin slip of a girl, barely fourteen years old, all wild red curls and knobby limbs covered in the scrapes and bruises of days spent climbing and running and chasing curiosity. For it was her curiosity that had prompted her to rifle through her deceased mother's belongings, and curiosity again that prompted her to practice the words in the little notebook she'd found there. In the eyes of the law, it didn't matter that they had been healing spells, nor that she'd only used them to soothe her little brother's life-threatening pneumonia. The laws of Uther Pendragon were uncompromising; magic, _any_ magic, was a crime whose only outcome could be death.

When Merlin set eyes on her, he might as well have been looking in a mirror.

The councilmen, many of whom had spent the majority of their years under Uther's law, called loudly for her execution. The knights remained silent, uncomfortably avoiding the topic in conversation and, if pressed, saying only that they trusted the judgement of their king.

As for the king, the weight in his shoulders spoke volumes about how heavily the decision weighed on him. Merlin was prepared to plead the girl's case, to say that she'd only been healing her brother, that surely a desire to protect was not something to be executed for––but he hadn't gotten two words out before Arthur commanded silence. A dark mood hovered over them both, one that everyone could sense; the knights kept their heads down, and even Guinevere seemed reluctant to address either one of them about anything more important than weather or what chore needed doing. Arthur contemplated in solitude, Merlin worried at his grief-like terror like a dog at an injury, and the entire castle knew better than to get between them.

The king used excuses to delay the trial for a day, snapping at his manservant when asked why and demanding to be left alone. Already in too much of an emotional cloud to be hurt, the young warlock distracted himself by making sure the girl was looked after in the dungeons below. He found food for her and even hid a dollop of pie between her bread and cheese, but it felt like an empty gesture. With the witnesses, the evidence and her brother's doctor standing against her, there was no doubt as to where her trial would end.

She was curled up quietly in the far corner of her cell, face curtained behind that untamable red hair. She flinched when Merlin stepped into the room, but the hunger in her eyes was clear when she caught sight of what he had in his hands. He'd gone out of his way to bring her a decent meal––potato soup and fresh barley bread, not the stale rubbish they usually fed prisoners.

He smiled at the girl, and she hesitantly stood. When she shoved her hair back over her shoulder, Merlin could see just how willowy she was; no muscle at all, with skin so pale that the bruises on her arms stood out stark as paint.

"Your arms," Merlin said gently, careful not to startle her. "Are you hurt?"

She paused on her way to the food, then covered her limbs up self-consciously. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"Let me see. Please?" At her uneasiness, he added, "I'm the physician's assistant. I know how to help."

"You're the king's manservant," she said, half fearful, half accusational.

"That too. Will you let me see?"

She didn't seem comfortable at the idea, but was in enough pain that the promise of a physician was enough to let him examine her. She was on edge when he reached for her arms, but didn't flee; he sat her down on the cot, put the tray of food in her lap and settled next to her to look her over.

Most of the bruising was on her upper bicep––no doubt from where she'd been manhandled by the guards throughout her journey to the dungeon. Her wrists were red and raw from the rough touch of shackles, but she didn't have any bones broken.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked through a mouthful of soup-sodden bread.

"Because it's the right thing to do." _And because it could be me in here._

"I'm a sorceress." She spit out the last word like something foul-tasting.

"And I'm a manservant. Doesn't mean you don't deserve decency. All of your injuries are mostly skin. I'll make up a salve for your wrists and send it down; the bruises will fade on their own."

"Does the king know you're here?"

"No. Doesn't seem like his business."

She tilted her head and looked at him through gentle, uncertain eyes. "You're… very kind."

"And you're very brave."

"Thank you, sir…?"

"Merlin. No need for the _sir;_ I'm not a knight."

"Merlin. I'm Niniane."

"Niniane. Don't tell anyone about that pie there, please? The kitchen matron'll have my head on a spike if she knew I'd taken any."

Niniane nodded, and Merlin got up to leave. Halfway out the door, she called out to him.

"Merlin?"

He looked back.

"Am I going to die?"

The question wrapped around his throat and strangled him. It hurt that he couldn't tell her why it was such a painful question, nor that it was one that both of them should be asking––so he simply took a breath, swallowed down the burning lump in his throat and did the only thing he could.

"No," he promised. "You healed your brother. You… _I_ will not let you die for that." He hadn't expected his visit to end with an oath, but once it was out, it made him feel better. Yes, he'd make sure she didn't die. She wouldn't be the first one he'd saved from the executioner's pyre, even if he had to go behind Arthur's back to do it.

Niniane would not face the flames for her crime.

As Merlin made his way back up the stairs, the world began to settle back into the cold, hard reality of facts and logic. He knew better than to hope for Niniane to be declared innocent; he'd seen death given for less enough times to know that optimism was useless. But that didn't mean that she was lost, not while he had anything to say in the matter. His frustration and fear were pushed aside for more productive thoughts, like when the guards would be patrolling, and where the flaws in their surveillance would be if there proved a need to use them.

Making the route to Arthur's chambers was routine and inevitable, even in spite of his friend's desire for solitude. There were likely dishes in need of clearing, or else clothes in need of laundering; making a last check on the king's wellbeing was as much a certainty of both their lives as the sun setting.

The air was heavy inside the royal chambers. Arthur was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead with his chin resting on his fists. He was still in his platemail, despite the fact that it was already night. Guinevere was nowhere to be found.

"You're not ready for bed," Merlin observed.

"Not tired," was Arthur's answer, as if Merlin was his mother in need of convincing.

"Your armor's probably filthy. Let me see it."

Arthur stood obediently and let Merlin get at the various buckles and straps that held the whole thing together.

"You're late," Arthur said after awhile, with a tone of voice that could have just as well been remarking upon the weather.

"Maybe you're early." He realized that didn't make much sense, but was too distracted to bother thinking up decent banter. "Did you spill wine there?"

"Hmm."

"And you wonder why I take so long cleaning your armor."

"It's your job to get it done quickly."

"I'd do it quicker if you kept it cleaner."

"You need the exercise. Lightweight."

"Prat."

The platemail came off with a chorus of clanking. Merlin set it on the bed and turned to start on the chainmail.

"She used magic, Merlin. I know it. You know it. Everyone in the court knows it."

"Your father's laws forbid magic in any form."

"That's what they're all saying."

"Do you think they're saying wrong?"

Arthur sighed and fell quiet for a moment. Then, "I know they've seen more than I have. Maybe they're wiser than me. Maybe they're right to think the law should be upheld in all cases. But…"

"But?"

"It's not their fault what they sound like. I know that they hold the kingdom's best interests at heart. They tell me to do what they think is best for everyone. But I can't help it; when they talk to me about what choice is wise to make, it all sounds like Agravaine."

Merlin bowed his head, tapping Arthur's shoulder in signal to bend down. The king did so, and the chainmail shirt slid smoothly off, leaving behind a only a pinched and dirty jerkin.

"What if they weren't there?" the warlock asked. "Would you feel differently about the girl?"

"I don't know. Probably."

Was that hope in Merlin's chest? "It isn't their decision, Arthur. If they weren't there, if you didn't have anyone talking to you about what _they_ think should happen… what would _you_ think should happen to her?"

Arthur was silent for a while. Merlin folded up the chainmail and slotted the platemail into itself, making both small enough to carry together, then toyed around with them to give the impression that he was still doing something while he waited for his friend to answer.

"Do you think she's guilty, Merlin?"

Merlin sighed. "I think that she is being put on trial for saving her little brother."

Arthur peeled off his jerkin and tossed it to the floor. "Magic is illegal."

"Should she have let her brother die, then?"

"... She should have been smart enough not to be caught."

"If she had saved Guinevere's life, would it be different?"

Arthur was silent. Merlin let the question hang in the air as he gathered up the fallen jerkin, piled it with the armor.

"That will be all, Merlin."

The warlock hesitated, but only for a moment. He scooped up the collection of clothing and armor and shifted it against a hip, but paused one last time before he made his departure.

"I know what kind of king you are, Arthur," he said. "Those men in the council chambers might think they can treat you like your father, but that's not their right. They can't decide what sort of man you are; only you can do that."

Arthur looked up. "You don't think I should execute her."

"I don't think that saving her brother's life is grounds for execution."

Arthur moved towards the window pensively. After a moment, he nodded to himself. "Thank you, Merlin." It was as much a dismissal as it was thanks.

Merlin left the royal chambers, and was surprised to find Gwen hovering anxiously in the corridor.

"Oh!" she breathed, face lighting up excitedly. "So the two of you are talking again? Finally; I thought it'd never be safe."

She picked up her skirts hurriedly and made for the door. Merlin watched her go, blinking, then decided that he didn't need to understand and continued down the hall to take care of the armor.

The next day was one of the most tense that Merlin could remember since the wedding. The council chamber was filled to the brim with knights, courtiers and councilmen, all waiting with bated breath to see their king take his first official stance against sorcery. Arthur and Guinevere sat stiffly on their thrones, their faces carefully neutral. Merlin stood quietly in the shadow of the king's throne, always at the right, arms crossed and posture slack. He was close enough to attend his friend, but far enough behind that the people in the room still glanced past him as if he wasn't there.

When Niniane was brought in, though, she spotted him immediately. She held her head low, hugging her ribs as if it were cold and resolutely avoiding the gaze of everyone around her. She caught Merlin's eye once, and he did his best to look reassuring, but she looked away so quickly that he wasn't sure if she'd seen it.

The trial brought no surprises. The evidence had already circulated throughout the castle; there wasn't a person in attendance that doubted her guilt. Try as he might to stay unaffected, the accusations themselves still made Merlin's knees weak; it had been so long since he'd been forced to attend the judgement of a sorcerer that he'd forgotten how personal it felt. Every piece of evidence made Merlin's heart jump as if it he himself was in the middle of the room, forced to kneel before the court and before Arthur. Arthur's calm neutrality had never looked so frightening.

The trial, really, was more for the king than it was for the girl; when the proceedings came to their end, all eyes were trained on the king––except Merlin's. Merlin looked instead at the Niniane, at how openly she displayed the fear that they both were feeling, trying desperately to catch her eye and tell her without words that she wasn't alone.

Arthur was quiet for a long moment, surveying the multitude of faces that had come to see him declare his verdict. Gwen was silent, but had the decency to look sympathetic. Finally, after an age of waiting, Arthur made his decision.

"You are guilty of using magic in Camelot," Arthur said. "The use of all magic is banned in this kingdom. The law is clear, and has been so for many years." The king glanced at his wife, then looked Niniane in the eye. The rest of the room leaned in anxiously. "You have come before us for the single crime of sorcery, and of no other. Magic has no place in Camelot, and its users are banned from our borders, but the evidence we had heard today suggests that you have done no harm and made no danger to those around you. In accordance with our laws, you, as a sorceress, have no place in Camelot, and are hereby sentenced to exile."

The air rushed from Merlin's lungs, and a shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. Niniane's mouth opened in dazed disbelief.

"I'm… going to live?"

Arthur stood and spoke to the entire room. "You have two days to gather your belongings and leave the city. You will remain under armed guard until you are out of sight of the gates; any use of magic witnessed by your guards will result in your execution."

More than one councilman threw a disapproving look at the king, but Arthur didn't seem to notice. Turning sharply, he tossed "Dismissed!" over his shoulder and strode quickly out of the council chambers, with Merlin falling into step at his right shoulder. Shouts of "Sire!" "Unprecedented!" and "Inappropriate!" followed them out, but all were ignored.

Merlin couldn't find it in himself to be happy, but he _did_ feel a swell of relief––for Niniane, if nothing else. After getting Arthur out of his courtly clothes, Arthur ordered Merlin to see to Niniane's exile personally and make sure that nothing happened to jeopardize her sentence. _Don't let anyone take her life into their own hands,_ he didn't have to add.

Merlin saw to it that Gwaine and Percival guarded her for the two days it took to gather up her things. Then, with Gaius' blessing, he managed to weasel her out of the knights' earshot and tell her about the sorceress by the name of Alice, who was one of the greatest healers in the land––Niniane had only to mention the names Gaius and Merlin, then explain what had happened to her, and Alice would look after her. Niniane knew better to ask questions; she simply nodded gratefully, hugged the dagger Merlin had smuggled out of the armory, and swore that she would never forget his kindness.

* * *

In the wake of the trial, the rest of the summer felt like a blur. Once Niniane was gone, the criticism of Arthur's decision went away. It was mostly the older councilmen that had taken issue with it; for those who loved and respected Arthur, exiling a fourteen-year-old girl was much more comfortable than executing one. There had never been a question of loyalty, of course, but there was a notable air of relief that followed them; their sovereign had upheld the law as expected, without the bitter cruelty that had been expected of his father.

Meanwhile, the warlock that hid amongst them soon found his dreams to feature trials of a similar sort, with the difference being that he was the one on trial––and that exile wasn't always the sentence.

As he usually did, Merlin distracted himself in his work. He served Arthur, he ran errands for Gaius and he went back to his never ending search for any sign of Morgana. She had not taken advantage of the small lapse in attention during the trial, nor did she make an appearance in the days that followed.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

And when summer waned, Merlin dug his heels in for the same reason as before.

 _If it wasn't summer she was waiting for, then it would be fall._

Compared to the wedding, Arthur and Gwen's first anniversary was a quiet affair. A small, private dinner was held between them and the knights, with Merlin there to keep the cups full and the king in check. He heard later that many households in the lower and upper towns raised a glass in honor of the occasion, but there was no great fanfare to recognize it; there was simply a night of happy remembrance and silly stories, and the world continued on.

The harvest wasn't as large as that of the previous year, but wasn't small enough to raise concern; the royal storehouses were filled appropriately, and it was generally expected that the winter would not be harsh. Merlin remained on edge when winter rolled in. He knew in the back of his mind that it was irrational, but he couldn't help it; there was a shadow in the corner of his eye, a figure around every bend that disappeared whenever he tried to look. It infuriated him, because she _should_ be there, she _should_ be trying to sink her claws back into their lives. But she wasn't.

Morgana was nowhere to be found.

Fall turned to winter, and the nightmares stopped. Winter turned to spring, and for the first time in what felt like years, Merlin allowed himself to taste something he'd almost forgotten: hope.

He allowed himself to hope that Morgana was gone for good.

He allowed himself to sleep without fearing the sound of his own name.

He allowed himself to forget the sound of Arthur saying it.

And when summer turned to fall and Arthur was summoned urgently to the throne room, Merlin allowed himself to think that nothing was wrong.

The young woman waiting for them was thin and willowy, and she quailed at the sight of the king. Gwen hovered over her protectively, murmuring soft reassurances that she would be safe and protected. A small number of knights had also been called, and were seated at the round table patiently. Elyan stood close to Gwen, his armor coated with the dust of a hard ride, and he turned when Arthur and Merlin swept in.

"Sire," Elyan said, dipping his head respectfully.

"Elyan. What's happened?"

Elyan gestured to the frightened young woman. "This is Sefa. We found her on patrol in the Darkling Woods. Tell the king what you told me, Sefa."

Arthur nodded and approached her, slow and relaxed. "Hello, Sefa," he said quietly. "My name is Arthur." He moved deliberately and gently, like he would with a startled horse.

Sefa managed a nod. "I… I know."

"You are in no danger here, Sefa. Are you injured? Do you need medical attention?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so."

"What did you tell Sir Elyan when he found you? You have nothing to fear."

"I told him… my name. That I was from Lot's kingdom."

A surprised murmur went through the room.

"Lot?" Arthur asked. "That is no short journey. How did you come to be in Camelot?"

"I… I was chased. I'm just a farmer's daughter, my lord, I-I know that Camelot is no friend to my king––"

"Sefa." Only Gwen could speak so firmly and so gently. "No harm will come to you here. You have committed no crime, and your are in no danger. Only speak freely, and we can clean you up and send you back home."

"I have no home!" Sefa choked. "It's gone! My village… she spared no one. She burned them all."

Another murmur went through the room, and Merlin's blood turned to ice.

Arthur's voice took on a noticeable edge. "What happened to your village?"

"I don't know exactly, just… I was out with the chickens, and then there was screaming and people were running, and there was so much fire, and then she just appeared. I thought she would kill me if she caught me, so I just ran. She… she caught me. There were people helping her, and they made me kneel. She started asking me questions; she wanted to know about one of our elders. I didn't know anything, so she let me go. I didn't stop running until the Darkling Forest."

"That was where we found her," Elyan supplied.

Arthur looked woman in the eye. "Sefa," he said. "These men that were working with 'her.' Did they refer to her by name?"

"Y-yes."

"Can you remember what they called her?"

"It was… M-M-Morgana. They called her Morgana."

Merlin had never been more glad to be out of sight; he felt dangerously close to vomiting, and was fairly sure he looked the part. By magic or by the grace of Lady Luck, he didn't sway in place.

There was silence throughout the council room. Sefa looked round, sensing immediately that something was not right.

"I'm s-sorry if I've caused offense, my lord––"

"No," Arthur said, shaking his head. "This is not your fault."

Gwen moved into action quickly, taking Sefa by the arm and muttering something about warm food and a warm bed. She guided the woman out of the council chambers, no doubt to remove her from what was certain to come next.

The doors closed behind them, and for a moment, everything was still.

Then Arthur drew himself up and swept his gaze over the assembled knights. His presence began to expand, taking up the entire room as he slipped into the role of command.

"Elyan," he boomed.

"Sire."

"Help Gwen and see to it that Sefa has everything she needs. I want her warm, fed and comfortable, and when she is all of those things, I want to know every detail of what she has seen."

"As you command."

"Leon."

"My king."

"Triple our patrols and put the city guard on high alert. Anyone coming in or out of the city is to be searched thoroughly before they are allowed passage."

"Of course."

"Percival."

"Yes, sire."

"I want the lands around Camelot to be under constant supervision. Establish constant communication with the woodsmen; anything strange, I want to know about immediately."

Percival nodded and left to make it so.

"Gwaine, see that the armory is restocked and managed. I want a full inventory of what we need, and then I want it filled twice over."

"It'll be done."

"As for the rest of you, get an early night's sleep. Starting tomorrow, training schedules will be tighter. We'll be drilling groundwork, horsemanship and crossbow formations every day. Dismissed."

With that, King Arthur spun on his heel and left the council chambers with an expression that could have frozen fire. No one dared follow him––no one save Merlin, who could see right through the facade of self-control to the pulsing emotion boiling under the surface. His own cold, strangling terror had to be put aside, because he couldn't afford to let his own judgement be compromised; while hard looks and confident words might fool the knights into thinking that their king was fine, Merlin knew better. Underneath it all, Arthur was coiled up in something worryingly akin to rage.

"Arthur," Merlin said, jogging to keep up with his friend's forceful pace. "Arthur, there's no need to be angry."

"Who said I was angry?" Arthur snapped angrily.

"No one. Just, do you really think all that was necessary?"

"Are you questioning my judgement?"

"No, not at all. Just wondering if perhaps you might be overreacting?"

"I am _not_ overreacting!" the king shouted.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "'Course not."

Arthur spun on him. "I swear, Merlin, one more sound out of you and I will throw you in the dungeons." The fire in his eyes proved that it was not an idle threat.

Merlin narrowed his eyes, but held his tongue obediently. A single, silent moment passed, then Arthur growled, "I thought so," and stormed ahead.

They burst through to doors of Arthur's chambers with enough noise to wake a sleeping ox––at least, that was what Arthur did. Merlin kept silent as he followed his king, knowing from experience that trying to pry would be pointlessly dangerous. Instead he watched, reclining patiently against the wall as Arthur paced a frustrated circle around the dining table, then the sitting area, to the window and to the fireplace and then two half-loops around the bed, where he finally tore off his cape and let it flutter across the blankets.

"How could I have been such a fool?" Arthur said to the room at large. "I let her walk straight out of here without a fight."

"No," Merlin said firmly, breaking his vow of silence. "You _cannot_ blame yourself for Morgana's survival."

"Survival?" The king laughed––a hollow, self-deprecating sound––and dropped his crown on top of his cape. "I let her rest. Do you know what she could have been doing for two years? Two years! Morgana has been doing _whatever she pleases_ for two years. How could I have been so stupid?"

"We were all stupid; you aren't alone. There is no way you could have possibly known that she was alive."

"It's my job to know; I sure as Hell didn't know if she was dead. That should have been enough. I should have expected this; I should have been preparing. We have no idea what she's been doing. We have no idea what she's going to do. How do we defend ourselves? Our patrols and guards were always useless against her, and now she's had two years to prepare whatever magic she wishes."

Arthur sank onto the bed, staring at the floor with hollow eyes.

"This is my fault," he murmured.

" _No._ It is Morgana's fault. Don't blame yourself for something you had no control over."

"We can't fight her, Merlin." His voice was tinged with despair. "Not again. Not a third time. We've lost so much already. Morgana is the most powerful sorceress anyone in Camelot has faced; maybe the most powerful in the five kingdoms. We can thwart her, we can overturn her plans, but what else can we do? If a fatal wound didn't kill her, what answer can we possibly have to her power?"

The king slipped into silence, staring silently at the floor. Merlin watched for a few moments, then walked to the bed and began to gather up the cloak. As he folded it, the warlock answered softly as best he could.

"What we _shouldn't_ do is blame ourselves for what has already happened. It doesn't matter how or why Morgana is back, only that she is." He set the folded cap down and picked up the crown, moving off to set in in its box. "And we have time. If she's in Lot's kingdom, there is still time for us to prepare. All I can tell you is what I know, and I _know_ that you are stronger than Morgana. Magic be damned; _you_ are Camelot's true king, and Guinevere is its true queen. You will keep us safe, Arthur. You always do, and you always will."

"I can't keep anyone safe from an enemy I can't fight."

"You _have_ fought Morgana. Twice."

"And each time, she's taken too many lives. Innocent lives. Women and children, who had no use to her other than to make Camelot kneel. If we can't answer her power, what's to say she won't do it again? She's had two years to gather her strength. We've had ten minutes."

Merlin sighed, realizing that he had no answer that would come even close to satisfying his friend. And so he settled for what little comfort he _could_ give; "I trust you, Arthur. You and your destiny. I believe without doubt that, whatever Morgana decides to do, you will keep Camelot strong. You will."

Arthur rolled onto his back and stared at the bed canopy, silent. Merlin lingered, sensing instinctively that his words had done little to soothe his friend's guilt. Arthur was very good at blaming Merlin for things that went wrong, but he was even better at blaming himself––regardless of where the blame actually lay. Merlin could praise Arthur until he was blue in the face, but it wasn't as if the king would notice; when Arthur decided to blame himself, there was no stopping him. It hurt Merlin more than he would ever admit, but there was little he could do.

Until, quite suddenly, Arthur sat up. The pain drained from his face, and he looked straight at Merlin with piercing clarity. Merlin expecting his own spirits to lift at the sight, but they didn't. That look, so sharp and cold, made his gut clench.

Merlin realized that this was a conversation they'd already had. Whatever relief he felt at his friend's sudden energy, it was matched by a slow, roiling fear.

"You're right," Arthur said, and his face smoothed into a calm mask of certainty––the face that usually meant he'd found the answer.

"I usually am," Merlin replied, trying his best not to sound hoarse.

The king rose from the bed, striding over to the window to look out at the sunset. His shoulders relaxed, and as he gazed out over Camelot, his eyes took on that warm glint of protectiveness that usually made Merlin so proud to see.

"I have jumped to conclusions," he told the window. "You're right; the how and why don't matter. Whoever is to blame, Morgana is still alive and that means that Camelot is in danger. I'll say that the news… startled me. But now isn't the time for rushing, not when there might be something out there that she fears." He turned and looked Merlin in the eye. "I want you to bring a message to the head of council. At noon tomorrow, the round table is to convene for an emergency meeting."

 _Please no._ Merlin's throat was so dry, he had to swallow three times before he could manage, "You've got a plan?" _Please don't._

Arthur looked back out the window. "I know it's been two years, and her fears might have changed. I know this is something I should have done two years ago, but it can't be helped now; there's one thing we have to go on, and so we'll have to do our best with whatever time we have left."

 _Please don't say it._ "What's that?"

The king gave a look that sent terror sweeping through Merlin's body. "If we have no force to match her, then we will find one. Two years ago, Morgana gave me the name that terrified her above all others."

 _No._

"If Emrys has any chance of defeating Morgana, then we _will_ find it. I've spent too long resting, and we need to make up for lost time. I will not rest until Emrys is found."

* * *

Hey, all! Sorry for the total weirdness of this chapter; I couldn't think of a non-awkward way to skip two-and-something years in a single chapter. I know the pacing is very uneven, but this is the only time it'll happen, I promise. After this, we'll be getting into the events of season 5, so the pacing should be much smoother. As always, thanks for the amazing positivity, and super-thanks to my amazing beta Wryter501!


	4. Impatience

The council chamber was tense. Knights and councilmen shuffled at the rim of the round table in an uneasy herd, some sitting, some standing, some pacing, some moving between the three. Arthur had yet to arrive, and all were anxious to break the mutual silence that hung over them––the silence that pressed down on their shoulders with a single, unspoken word: Morgana.

The name had spread like wildfire throughout Camelot, and everyone was on edge. Even in the lower town, it was reported that civilians had heard the name and knew at least bits of the news; they understood that their greatest enemy was somehow alive, and every man, woman and child in the city was alert and waiting for their king to decide their course.

And as the council waited for the king, attention turned instead to Guinevere. While she understood the basic reason for it, the queen wasn't sure what exactly they expected her to do; she wasn't very well going to speculate or give orders while her husband was on his way, which left her just as quiet and impatient as the rest of them. The best she could do was to keep her eyes trained on the assembly, gauging the mood of individuals and making sure that the general uneasiness didn't lead to any unexpected infighting.

When Arthur finally made his entrance with Merlin at his shoulder, the entire room let out a sigh of relief. The king wasted no time; signalling the council to begin, he moved quickly to his chair and took a seat. The rest of the people in the room did the same, and only when all were seated did they address what was at hand. Well, "all" meaning everyone but Merlin, who hadn't sat at the round table since it had been a dusty old thing in a long-abandoned keep; he stood, as he always did, behind his king's right shoulder, although he watched and listened with as keen an interest as anyone else––perhaps even more, as Gwen could see in the worried lines of his brow.

"Reports," Arthur ordered. "Leon. Gwaine. Percival. Elyan. Guinevere."

They moved through the reports quickly. All of Arthur's previous orders had been implemented; the guard was increased, the armory double-stocked, and the surrounding woods were under constant watch. There was a calm efficiency that possessed them all, as well as an impatient eagerness to hear what the king had to say on the future.

Elyan deferred Sefa's wellbeing to Gwen, although was quick to request permission to investigate rumors; his many travels before knighthood had left him with plenty of contacts that could prove useful whenever Sefa gave them something they could investigate. He was assigned to monitor any whispers of Morgana's movements, and once that was done, all eyes shifted to Gwen. She gave her report swiftly.

"Sefa has said little since she arrived," Gwen admitted. "She's frightened, but Gaius believes her capable of a full recovery. She has told me only that her village was targeted for one of its elders, an old woman named Moran. I can only speculate, but I believe that Moran might have had some knowledge that Morgana found useful."

Arthur dipped his head. "Do you believe that Sefa will tell us more?"

"Yes; once her strength returns, I have confidence in her."

"Good." The king swept his gaze in a full circle, landing on each member of the round table to check that everyone had said their piece. There were no unexpected additions to what had already been said; there was only silence, heavy and expectant, and soon enough Arthur was certain of his own turn.

The Pendragon stood, and the entire assembly leaned forward in anticipation.

"Knights. Councilmen. Friends." The king's voice was both somber and hard. "I know that the news of Morgana's return has affected us all. This is an eventuality that we should have been preparing for, and yet we have been caught off guard. I take the blame for this inaction, but there is no time to dwell on what should have been––we must first focus on what we do now."

Gwen blinked. They had already increased the guard, armoury and patrols; if asked, she wouldn't have been able to name anything more for them to do. Evidently, her thoughts were shared by the rest of the round table; more than one man flashed his neighbor a confused glance. Still, Arthur clearly had a point he was getting at.

"Almost three years ago," Arthur continued, "we drove Morgana from these walls and purged the land of her forces. I, along with several others, led a precision strike against Morgana herself. The result was a confrontation in the throne room, through which we defeated Morgana and forced her to flee."

Gwen frowned. She knew well enough how exactly Camelot had been retaken; she'd been part of the strike, after all, but it had been nothing more than a simple skirmish. There had to be more to it than that.

And as it turned out, there was.

"Before she fled, Morgana and I came face to face. We did not exchange many words. But…" He hesitated for a single moment. "She made a statement to me, and I believe that she was afraid. Her exact words were: even Emrys cannot save you now."

Emrys. It was a foreign-sounding word. When Gwen mouthed it to herself, the syllables felt odd on her tongue.

"I know that this is not much to go on," Arthur said. "A few moments later, Morgana's magic failed and she fled. I do not know what Emrys is, but I do know that Morgana fears it. That in itself is important enough to warrant more information. If we can discover what Emrys is, and, more importantly, why Morgana fears it, we could stand a chance of gaining an advantage like we've never had before––perhaps even the means to silence Morgana permanently."

He paused to let them mull his words over, and Gwen was glad that he did. There was, at the same time, a great deal of information and a great lack of information. The fact that something existed that could strike fear in their most hated enemy filled Gwen with a sense of… hope? Vengeance? Comfort? She didn't know. But it made her feel something. At the same time, however… "Emrys" was nothing more than a single strange word, and those weren't very easy to form opinions about.

"I know that there isn't much to track," Arthur admitted. "I wish that I knew more. That is why, following keeping track of Morgana's movements and intentions, Emrys is to be our first priority. I am launching an investigation into the nature of this 'Emrys' immediately after the council is dismissed. I am looking for anyone with additional information, as well as volunteers willing to participate in the investigation."

Arthur remained standing, but in the silence that followed it was clear that he'd said his full piece.

"Sire," Gaius said suddenly. "I will admit that I was not present at the event you speak of, but I cannot help but wonder at the things you've said."

"Speak your mind, Gaius."

"Your majesty, if this fear was so real in Morgana, and her magic was so unable to save her, do you not think that perhaps it was this... Emrys that caused her magic to fail? An object or force, perhaps, an item that was in the room with you when you confronted her."

Arthur shook his head. "No, there was nothing there. I saw no object that could have possibly served as such; the room was barren save for Morgana and her bodyguard and the forces I managed to bring with me."

"Sire, magic does not always take physical form."

"You believe it was something else, then? A faceless force?"

"I cannot 'believe' anything, sire, only speculate. And I speculate that it was this Emrys that caused Morgana's magic to fail."

Arthur hmmed, face tightening thoughtfully. The entire room thought alongside him, considering Gaius' words carefully. The round table was quiet as each person gathered their own thoughts. That silence was the only reason they were all able to hear the soft mumblings "Emrys, Emrys, Emrys," coming from the south side of the table.

Geoffrey of Monmouth, librarian and councilman, was frowning at his hands and murmuring the word to himself.

"Geoffrey," Arthur called. "Do you have something to say?"

Geoffrey blinked, apparently startled that he had even been heard, and shook his head. "My apologies, sire, I am merely thinking the word over. It feels familiar to me, and yet I could not say as to why. I feel as if I have heard it said before, but do not know when, where or by whom."

In an instant, Arthur was focused on him like a hawk on a rabbit. "Was it part of a language? I have reason to believe that the word might be of Druidic origin."

"Druidic!" Geoffrey exclaimed. "Yes, that sounds right."

"Are there any books in your library that might give us more information?"

Geoffrey shifted awkwardly. "It's possible, sire, but… there aren't likely to be many books that even mention the subject. Many books regarding Druids were lost during the Great Purge."

This statement checked Arthur, who frowned for a moment but did not press for details. "I understand. Nevertheless, I would ask you to make certain. If there is even a chance that this Emrys could defeat Morgana, we must pursue that chance to its end."

"I understand, sire," Geoffrey said, bowing his head solemnly. "If there is anything that could be of use to you, rest assured that I will find it."

"Thank you, Geoffrey." The king cast another glance around the table. "Is there anything that others would like to add?"

Silence. Neighbors looked at each other, each contemplating what had been said, but there was still an underlying current of uneasiness. After a long while, it was Leon who gave it voice.

"It this word, this Emrys, comes from the Druids," he said, "would there not be cause to believe that it might involve magic?"

Another murmur went through the room, although no one was brave enough to outright challenge their king.

Arthur nodded. "I have thought of that, yes. It is possible that Emrys is magical in some way, but also that it is not. I cannot make any decisions without information. Emrys might be something too dangerous to consider using, but I believe that if there is the slightest chance that it has any sort of power with Morgana, we are duty bound, at the very least, to know what it is. Beyond that, there are no certainties until we have more information."

Though it was vague, there was a ripple of assent around the table. Most, if not all, seemed to agree that an investigation was warranted; a young knight by the name of Kay volunteered to assist Geoffrey in whatever manner was needed, and then the tension in the room eased. There were still more questions than answers, but at least they knew that their king was just as in the dark as much as they were. Geoffrey was excused to begin his work, Sir Kay trailing along behind him, and the matter was left to their hands.

The council turned briefly to other matters––food and storage, mostly, and what concerns winter might bring. Fall was thick, but the winds had not yet turned threatening; it was generally agreed that one or two outlying villages were likely to suffer, but that Camelot's stores were more than enough to keep true starvation from hurting those less fortunate. There wasn't much to discuss, all things considered––nothing new, at least. Aside from the sudden scare of Morgana, Camelot continued to live peacefully and smoothly. Reports were unsurprising and supplies were unremarkably bountiful; the meeting came to a swift end and was adjourned.

Gwen found her husband walking back to their shared quarters, Merlin at his heel. Arthur's face was pulled into deep thought, to the point that Merlin seemed to be the only thing keeping him from walking straight into a wall.

Gwen sidled up to Arthur's left side and looped an arm through his. He blinked and paused.

"Guinevere," said the king. "Are you walking this way?"

"I am now," she replied. "I just wanted to see that you were alright."

"I'm always alright."

Gwen saw Merlin roll his eyes, but had the sense not to do the same.

"I'm glad," was her consciously gentle answer. She went back to walking, pulling her husband along with her and, by proxy, Merlin behind them. "I suppose we're all a little taken aback by… all of this news. I'd hoped that we were done with her."

"I'd hoped that, too. And now we're off guard."

"Not for long, if this Emrys turns out to be something we can use."

Arthur sighed, looked like he was about to say something, then remained silent. Gwen peered at him warmly.

"You think that it's magic," she said softly.

The king sighed again. That was an answer in and of itself.

Gwen pressed on. "Would it really stop us in our tracks if it was?"

Arthur turned and looked at her, brow furrowing. "Camelot does not accept magic."

"Camelot doesn't accept armies knocking at the door, either." She rested her chin on Arthur's shoulder. "If there's something that can help us, I don't much care if it's magical or not. Should our people's safety not come before everything else?"

Arthur hmmed. "Whatever it is, we barely know the first thing about it."

"If anyone will find anything, it's Geoffrey. You know how he loves his books."

"I'm more worried about what he'll find in those books." Arthur fell silent for a small while. Then, "How is the girl? Sefa, wasn't it?"

"You remember my report, don't you?"

"I mean personally. How is she feeling, not thinking of information and Morgana?"

Gwen sighed. "Well, she's shaken, obviously. She's slept a great deal since her arrival, but she seems to be talking well enough, so long as she isn't asked to discuss what happened. She asked for sewing material last night, and she sews when she's awake. I think she's keeping herself busy out of distress."

"But if we were to ask about her experience?"

"I don't know. Give her a bit more time. Another few days, at least."

Arthur nodded. "Of course. You'll see that she has everything she needs?"

"Of course."

"Get her some nice cloth, if she likes sewing. Silk or something people like that like."

Gwen snorted. "Certainly. I'll make sure to say it's from you."

Ahead of them, the door to their chambers came into view.

"Finally!" Arthur exclaimed. "I thought we'd never get here."

"You'd've gotten here sooner if you hadn't spent five minutes walking in a circle," Merlin grumbled.

"Shut up, Merlin."

Merlin looked at Gwen. "How on Earth did he get you to agree to marry him?" the manservant asked.

"Oh, he has his moments," Gwen replied.

"Moments?" Arthur snickered mischievously. "I'll show you moments!"

Without warning, he hoisted Gwen off of her feet and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, ignoring her undignified snorts and giggles and breathless demands for him to put her down right this instant. Arthur trotted her cheerfully into their chambers, and Merlin was no help at all; all he did was give her a wink and close the door behind them.

* * *

If Gwen had one word to describe the following week, it would have been "impatience." Everyone in Camelot was impatient; the knights were impatient to catch some sign of Morgana, Elyan was impatient for Sefa to reveal what she knew, and Arthur was unbelievably impatient for Geoffrey of Monmouth to uncover something in regards to "Emrys." Merlin probably would have found something to be impatient about as well, if he hadn't decided to spend the week sprinting from one task to another. He seemed to be coping with all the news by assuming an inhuman workload, but Gwen wasn't going to judge. She was coping in much the same way.

Many years of life had taught Gwen that impatience was not a particularly helpful emotion. She was just as impatient as the rest of them, of course, but make time go any faster; this left her impatience to be a relatively pointless thing, so she filled up her time with paperwork and castle staff and generally making sure that Camelot ran smoothly while everyone else was busy waiting for something to happen. It felt much better than sitting around to sulk.

When the work and impatience became too much, she spent her time with Sefa. It had been awhile since Gwen had had to make use of more crafty skills, but she remembered a time when it had brought her joy; the steady motion yarn and crochet hook was inherently calming, and it brought her right back to early years spent sitting by the fire as her father told stories, back when times had been simple and there was nothing to worry about but what the next day's weather would be like.

Sefa had a talent for needlework, that much was clear. She embroidered all sorts of things on the cloth she was provided, from vines and flowers to animals and rivers. In her first hour of sewing, Sefa managed to cut out and pin together half the panels of a gown, chattering all the while as if it took no more thought than breathing. If Gwen had even half her skill, she would have certainly made a fine, fine living as a clothier.

Sewing also seemed to make Sefa happy, or at least suppress the darkness of her experiences. While usually closed up and nervous, the young woman bloomed like a flower the instant she got a project in her hands. She spoke freely of the wonder of Camelot, and how she'd never seen anywhere so grand and prosperous; being a farmer's daughter hadn't afforded her much of the world beyond their little valley. At this topic she would darken, but not to the point of closure; her pain was still strong her her heart, but she was learning to heal.

When she spoke of her homeland, there was little to tell beyond what she already had. It was a small farming village in Lot's kingdom, with children and elders and enough animals to guarantee survival in all seasons. Her wistful descriptions of her homeland left Guinevere thinking of Ealdor and Merlin's mother, and of the gentle tranquility that had seeped out of every blade of grass during her brief stay there.

None of it was of interest from a military standpoint. Though she knew little of magic, Gwen had difficulty imagining any of it to be of magical interest, either. There were no sorcerers, Sefa said, not even a healer beyond the older wives that traded herblore whenever one of the children fell sick or injured themselves. Moran, the old woman that Morgana had come for, had never shown any sign of magic––none that Sefa had seen, anyway, and she'd lived there all her life. Old Moran knew herblore aplenty, and was the closest thing the village had to a physician when things turned sour, but even that was nothing more than plants and bandages. Old Moran had never hurt anyone, and there was no logical reason anyone would hurt her.

But Morgana had always done things for a reason, even if she was not always logical.

When Gwen told her husband her findings over dinner three nights after the emergency council meeting, he was neither pleased nor displeased. He certainly wanted more, but followed Gwen's logic that there likely wasn't much else they could get from Sefa. He asked Gwen to learn as much about Moran specifically as she could. There was little to discuss after that, and it looked like they would be finishing dinner in tired silence––until Merlin caught (set himself?) on fire and set Arthur off on one of his "idiot Merlin" tirades. Once Merlin put himself out and began firing back, the rest of the evening was set; all Gwen had to do was pour herself more wine, sit back and enjoy.

The fourth and fifth day did little to pry out any more useful information. Sefa continued to flash through the dresswork like it was child's play, and was happier and happier every time Gwen came to join her. Gwen was surprised to realize that she was just as happy for their sewing hour as Sefa; the young woman talked easily, and Gwen quite liked her company.

"Have you ever thought of becoming a tailor?" Gwen asked on the fifth day.

"Me? Oh, no, not really. I've never planned on being anything, really."

"Never? Surely you must have had some dreams."

"The farmer's dream. Grow up, marry a good man, have children, watch them have children. I've never really wanted more than what I have––what I had." Her face fell at the last word.

"Sefa," Gwen said softly, putting down her sewing and taking the woman's hand. "Do you have anywhere else to go?"

"Nowhere. I'm sorry, milady––"

"What have I told you about calling me that?"

"––Guinevere, that's right, I'm sorry. I know I'm not much more than a burden here, and you've been so good to me. All I've done is use up your cloth."

"And warn us of Morgana's reappearance. And make me smile, and tell me stories, and all sorts of things that many people can't do with such grace and ease. It is a pleasure, not a burden, to have you stay here."

"But I've no way of repaying you," Sefa murmured, looking at her lap. "These clothes and this food don't belong to me."

Gwen frowned, and then a thought came to her. "Sefa," she said, "would you like a job?"

Sefa blinked and looked up. "I'm sorry?"

"I haven't taken a handmaiden, not since the wedding. I'm not usually comfortable with the idea itself––I was a handmaiden once, you see, and it feels strange to have one of my own––but I like you, Sefa. I want to see you get your feet under you. You will have duties and tasks that you might not have experience with, coming from a farm, but I can teach you. I learned them quickly enough, and I was a blacksmith's daughter."

Sefa's eyes widened. "I-I am sure there are others with more experience––"

"Experience isn't the point. You are. It won't be glorious, but you'll have your own room––this one, if you'd like––and you'll have steady wages. Stay as long as you want, as long as you need to find your place again. Forever, if you wish it."

"I… I don't know what to say." The young woman looked at the ground. "What would my duties be as your handmaiden?"

"You'd accompany me throughout the day. You'd help me get ready in the morning and get ready at night. Hair, clothes, bathing; you'd help with everything, but don't get worried––I've been doing it myself for my whole life, and I don't expect you to know everything right away."

"So I would be… your Merlin?"

Gwen's eyebrows shot up. "My Merlin?"

Sefa reddened. "I mean, just, like your manservant. Like Merlin is to the king, not like––I mean, I wouldn't be Merlin, of course, I'll just––I'll stop talking."

Gwen held up her hands. "Easy, Sefa, I'm not judging. I was just surprised you knew his name so soon."

"Oh, it's nothing." She turned an even brighter red. "I just noticed him, that's all."

"Of course," Gwen said, nodding knowingly. "then I'm sure you 'just noticed' all our other good-looking servants, too."

"Milady!"

"Oh, peace, Sefa, I'm only teasing. Although I'm certain I could get him to accompany me one of these days, if I decide I need another pair of hands for my sewing."

"You wouldn't!" Sefa squeaked, hiding her mouth with a fistful of green cloth. "Would you?"

Gwen smiled. "I'm sure I can come up with something. But only if you take the job."

Sefa twisted the cloth through her fingers, biting her lip. "Yes, of course I'll take the job."

"Wonderful."

Convincing Merlin to join in on the "interrogation" was no challenge at all. Since the council meeting, Merlin hadn't given himself a spare moment to even breathe between all the work he took on. The man seemed quite eager to work himself into the ground, but he'd always had a way with those less fortunate; Merlin was one of those people that had been blessed at birth with unquenchable friendliness and the ability to draw even the most quiet of people out of their shells. Gwen had high hopes for him, especially if she managed to push an hour of quiet company into his inhumanly busy schedule; she could see that he was uneasy with Morgana's return, even more than Arthur was, and needed time with his mind off it just as much as the king did.

And seeing Sefa fidget when Merlin was in the room was delightful, too.

"Your village elders," Gwen said, starting on her sewing. "Did you know them well?"

"Yes, yes I did. I admired them."

Sefa kept shooting glances at Merlin when she thought neither of them were looking. Merlin, without a project or the sewing skill to start one, simply busied himself with keeping the fire warm and ferrying around the wine whenever a cup needed filling. Sefa swallowed audibly every time he made to fill hers, clearly unused to being served, but wasn't quite brave enough to speak against it. Merlin smiling at her every time didn't help, either, although he wasn't entirely present; he moved through his tasks repetitively, almost by instinct instead of conscious thought. The man circled rhythmically between the fire, the wine and the biscuits Gwen had ordered to be brought up, all without really seeing what he was doing.

"I know this isn't useful from the standpoint of a queen, but I find myself curious about this old Moran," Guinevere said to Sefa. "She reminds me of my grandmother, the way you talk about her. My grandmother sometimes took me out to the woods to collect herbs, but I was never the sort for medicine or potions. I spent all my time picking flowers instead of listening to what she had to say about her plants."

Sefa chuckled. "Moran talked about her herbs, too. There was one boy who liked to listen to her, but the rest of us were always too interested in running and playing to pay her mind."

"Do you know where Moran learned her herblore, if you don't mind me asking? I never got the chance to ask my grandmother."

"Ismere," Sefa replied, blushing when Merlin offered her some bread.

Gwen chuckled at the sight. "It's just bread, Sefa; it won't bite you."

"I know!" Sefa exclaimed, snatching the bread out of Merlin's hand and then promptly turning as red as a beet. "I'm so sorry, Merlin! I didn't mean to grab!"

Merlin laughed. "Oh, don't blame yourself; Gwen just likes making people blush. She's quite good at it."

Gwen rolled her eyes. "Don't listen to him, Sefa. You, Merlin, come and take a seat; the fire and wine are just fine, stop fiddling with everything. You certainly don't need to wait on me when Arthur's not here."

"I'd think not, with what the servants in this wing are saying," Merlin said, turning to Sefa. "Is it true that Gwen will be taking you on as a handmaiden?"

"Yes," Sefa squeaked.

"Color me impressed. Gwen hasn't taken on a handmaiden since… ever. Well done on you."

"... Thank you."

"Don't push her Merlin; she's blushing enough as it is. Any more of that and she'll catch fire."

Merlin raised his hands in mock surrender. "What did I do?"

"You were yourself."

"Well then, I'm sorry for being myself."

Gwen snorted. "Oh, go see if Arthur needs you. And take your cheekbones with you; they're making my handmaiden catch fire."

"Milady!"

Merlin turned to leave, tossing one last bit of wisdom over his shoulder. "Don't let her get to you, Sefa. She's the worst tease, and if she knows what makes you blush, she will use it against you."

"Go on, Merlin," Gwen pressed.

Merlin left to go find Arthur, and Sefa melted into a puddle in her chair.

"Why would you do that?" Sefa whined.

"Don't worry about him," Gwen reassured her. "You're not the first woman to cast her eye at that one, just ask the entire kitchen staff. But believe me, Merlin wouldn't know someone with eyes for him even if they kissed him. It's happened before."

That seemed to make Sefa feel less embarrassed.

* * *

The next council meeting was nearly boiling with anticipation. After hearing Gwen's report of her sessions with Sefa, Arthur was eager to begin investigating Ismere. The only thing he knew at the sound of the name was that it was located somewhere in the north; if they could find out where, they could try and track down Moran's history––and why she might be so interesting to Morgana.

Every member of the Round Table was leaning forward attentively when the reports began. There were few things of interest from the guards or patrols; the week had not seen Morgana make any moves against them. When Gwen's turn came, she deferred to her husband.

"There is little I can say that hasn't already been said," she announced to the table at large. "The only thing of note is a mention of Ismere, which I believe you already have intentions for, Arthur?"

Arthur nodded. "Yes, Sefa has mentioned that the old woman Morgana sought came from a place called Ismere. It isn't much, but it's the only information we have about why this woman might be of importance to our enemy. Gwaine, Percival; I want the two of you to take a small contingent of men and find Ismere to see what information you can gather. This is strictly intelligence; if you see signs of Morgana or magic, do not engage. Simply see if you can find any mention of Moran, of where she might have come from or perhaps if she has any surviving relatives, and we'll go from there."

Gwaine and Percival nodded their assent.

"Geoffrey," Arthur continued. "On to you. Has your research turned up anything we can use?"

The entire council turned to the librarian. Geoffrey stirred from his half-doze, looking around for a moment to get his bearings, then lit up at the sight of his king.

"Your majesty," Geoffrey said, nodded. "Forgive my tiredness. I have combed through the library for mention of this 'Emrys,' but there has not been a great deal to find. I'd been ready to give up hope until yesterday, when I found this."

He brought up a leathery book from his lap and set it on the table. The thing was rough and worn and surprisingly thin compared to most books Gwen had seen, and obviously not well-used.

"What is that?" Arthur asked for all of them.

"This, sire, is a playbook. It is an old play, The Fall of Mascen by Garlan of Myrddin; it's an old story, detailing the founding of your ancestry by King Mascen; I've only seen it performed once, when I was a boy. A bit dry if you ask me, but with fascinating history behind it."

"And this book," Arthur said impatiently, "has mention of Emrys?"

"Not precisely." Geoffrey opened the book to a page he'd bookmarked, sliding a finger down the paper until he'd found a particular spot. "Only once, and not in the actual text. But it was discovering this book that jolted my memory; in the Druidic tongue, 'Emrys' does indeed have a specific meaning: it means 'immortal,' as in a being. Right here, a soothsayer is speaking to King Mascen on his deathbed: 'and here you ask for a future which you will not see. The actions of your past will shape things not yet made manifest, and you, the first of your line, have sown the seeds of the Golden Dawn to come and of the Dragon King who will build it. Do not despair for the end of your life; revel in its accomplishments, and in knowing that the king of all kings will spring forth from the seeds you have planted.' End speech. And then, right here in the margin––not the text itself, but a note penned in next to the speech in the margin––it's right here. Emrys, with a question mark. Someone read this text and wrote it in."

Geoffrey closed the book.

"There is no other mention of the word in the library, but beneath the word Emrys is another word: immortal. It is here that I remembered where I had heard it before the Great Purge, when Druids were allowed into the walls of Camelot. This word was on their lips. Emrys. It means 'immortal,' I'm sure of it. Immortal, and something else."

"Immortal and something else," Arthur echoed, leaning back. "And that is all the library has on the matter?"

"Indeed, sire. The closest thing I have to a theory is that it has something to do with the mentioned 'Dragon King,' as that seems to be the only specific, named noun of importance in the passage, but I have no knowledge of that, either. If I may… this handwriting in the margins, I have seen it before. Not in a very long time, mind you, but I'd recognize it anywhere. There are no books in the library by this author, but there used to be. Before the Purge, there was a… particular scholar, one who collected information of a magical nature, including Emrys and other things besides. I know that Emrys featured in those writings at least a few times."

Arthur frowned. "My father had all books burned that mentioned magic."

"Yes, yes, sire, of course, but these writings in particular… I was not involved in their care directly, but I have reason to believe that they were not destroyed, and instead entombed in the vaults alongside the many dangerous artifacts that your father collected."

At this, Arthur leaned back in with a tense frown. "Why would my father spare these books in particular? Were they dangerous?"

"Not to my knowledge, sire." The librarian shifted uncomfortably, weighing his words carefully. "Your father was careful to keep knowledge of these books limited. I believe he would have preferred them forgotten entirely."

"But not destroyed?"

"No, not destroyed. Your father had many secrets that I was not privy to, my lord. If I may, I would like to request permission to enter the vaults themselves and search for these documents."

Arthur was silent for a moment. "And you are certain that these documents will provide us with further information regarding Emrys?"

"Not completely––I never read the books myself, only caught a glance once or twice while they were lying open––but I knew the scholar well enough to recognize the handwriting, and several of our conversations before the Purge mentioned the word Emrys."

"Mentioned? Do you remember any of the content of these conversations?"

"Bits and pieces, sire, but you must understand, this was thirty years ago. I do have some suspicions and theories, of course, but none strong enough for me to comfortably place any confidence in––and none with any resources I could reference."

This seemed to get through, and Arthur nodded with a heavy sigh. "I understand. I'll press you no more. Yes, you may have access to the vaults to uncover these documents."

"Thank you, your majesty," Geoffrey said, relaxing.

Arthur looked around the table. "Are there any other concerns needing recognition?"

Silence.

"Good." The king stood, and they all stood with them. "Council dismissed."

Gwen caught Arthur and Merlin on their way out. Arthur was significantly more aware than he had been the last time they left a council meeting, even rising one of Merlin's jibes about wearing his chainmail to the council. Gwen picked up her skirts to catch up to them.

"Arthur," she said once she was in earshot. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

Arthur turned, panicking for a moment as he assumed he was in trouble.

"Don't give me that look; I haven't even accused you of anything."

"Did I forget something?"

"Geoffrey?"

A blank look.

"He needs the keys if he's going to get into the vault."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Arthur paused and looked down the hall towards wherever he and Merlin had been walking. "Merlin, take this to Geoffrey, would you?" He handed Merlin the keys.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "I thought you wanted me to get you a whole pie from the––"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur said through clenched teeth, turning red. Then, to Gwen, "Merlin wanted some pie from the kitchens. Not a whole pie, of course; just enough for one person––"

"How about I take the keys to Geoffrey?" Gwen interjected, taking the keys from the manservant. "That way Merlin can go get whatever he needs to. I'd say that I'm very glad Merlin thought to get some; I would love some pie with dinner tonight. Enough for two?"

Arthur relaxed, and Merlin hid his smile in his sleeve.

"Yes," Arthur said. "Fine. Of course. Merlin, go get Guinevere some pie."

"Yes, sire, right away, sire." The manservant turned and hurried off in the direction of the kitchens.

"Apple, if they have it!" Gwen called after him. "If they don't, anything would be fine!"

"Get her apple pie!" Arthur added. "If they don't have it, bake some!"

"Of course, sire!"

The queen smacked her husband's arm with a grin. "You're terrible."

"He likes it. Probably. If I say he likes it."

"If he doesn't find apple pie, promise you won't be hard on him about it."

"But what if he deserves it?"

Gwen sighed and smacked his arm again. Arthur smiled and laced a hand through hers, angling them back towards their quarters, and Gwen remembered that she was holding the keys.

"No no no, not yet," she said, slipping out of the king's grasp. "The keys, remember? Give me a moment and I'll catch up to you."

"Promise you won't miss the pie."

"Promise you won't hit Merlin."

"I promise."

He went his way, she went hers. Geoffrey couldn't have gotten far; it had only been a minute or so, and he was not known for his agility. A few directions from the guards, and she was making for the lower levels. The rest of the council had already dispersed, most of them with tasks to attend to in the wake of their king's orders, and the halls were relatively quiet. Certainly quiet enough for her to hear the hushed voices she was approaching.

"... But is it wise?" someone was saying. Was that Gaius?

"I don't think this investigation is wise," Geoffrey responded. "But perhaps it is time? He is not his father; his trial of the girl was proof of that. The books would be safe in his care, surely."

"It's not the books I'm concerned about," Gaius pressed. "These are old wounds you are looking to open."

"To examine, not to open. Do you not think that perhaps the wounds were healed with Uther's death, at least enough to bring the documents back into the open? He would find them precious; surely he would do no harm to something written by––."

Gwen rounded the corner and came upon Geoffrey and Gaius huddled at the top of a staircase, deep in discussion. They stopped the instant she came in sight, turning and bowing respectfully.

"Majesty," Gaius said.

"Gaius. Geoffrey. Don't stop on my account; I won't keep you long. Arthur may have authorized your trip to the vaults, but I expect you still might find it difficult without this." She held out the key.

Geoffrey lit up and took it. "Yes, the key. Of course. Thank you, your majesty; I daresay this will make things much easier."

"As you were, then. Geoffrey. Gaius."

"Majesty."

"My lady."

They dipped their heads to each other, and Gwen turned to make her way back towards the royal quarters. What she'd caught of the tail end of their conversation rattled in her head, but they were the sort of words that she was hesitant to speak aloud. There was enough curiosity surrounding this 'Emrys' already; if there was more to be found, then she would wait and see what arose. The documents in the vault would reveal themselves without her help.

And besides, she could smell apple pie.

* * *

I'm not dead! Sorry for the long wait; NaNoWriMo ate my soul. I'm currently binge-watching the whole Merlin series again as fast as I can to build myself up for the next chapter, which will finally get into the events of the Arthur's Bane episodes. After that, I should hopefully get back to a more focused and regular routine. Thank you so much for sticking with me this far! As always, thanks to my lovely beta Wryter501 for proofing this chapter and helping me smooth and polish everything up for you guys.


	5. Forbaernan

If anyone were to ask: yes, Merlin was alright. He was fine, yes, of course he was; what in the world was there for him to not be fine about? The sun was shining and that was always good––unless it was raining, but plants needed water and so that was good, too. It was all good. Everything was good. If anyone were to ask, everything was completely and utterly fine.

And whenever they asked why he looked like he was on the brink of passing out, he'd say that he could hear Arthur calling his name and would rush off to see what his king wanted, but thank you for the worry it's nothing and _I am completely fine thank you very much._

There were habits and lessons that a person couldn't help but pick up after ten years of friendship with their would-be executioner. One of the first things Merlin had learned in Camelot was that "being alright" was very much a matter of mental endurance; pain and terror were old and familiar friends, and he knew his own limits well. He was skilled at putting on a disguise until he could crawl into his room and break down into a shuddering mess.

"Documents," Merlin said the instant they got back to their quarters. "Gaius, how could there be documents? Why––wasn't everything burned in the Great Purge? There's some mistake, there has to be; Geoffrey has to be remembering things wrong. There's nothing down there, is there? There can't be; it's impossible."

Silence followed, and every moment of it felt like the strangle of a hangman's noose.

"Come on, there has to be a mistake! There's nothing down there! I've been to the vaults, you've been to the vaults; there aren't books down there!"

"Merlin…" Gaius trailed off into more echoing silence.

"... Gaius, you can't be… there's no way. There aren't."

The physician took a breath. "I do have reason to believe that there are indeed documents down there bearing mention of Emrys."

Gaius could just as well have punched Merlin in the gut, because he suddenly couldn't breathe and had to sit down. Gaius frowned and sat next to him.

"Breathe, Merlin."

"If they find anything––"

"We don't know what will happen."

"What if he finds me, Gaius? I can't––I can't do it, I can't see him look at me like a… like a _sorcerer."_ He spit out the last word like it was a curse.

"Merlin, I need you to listen to me."

"He'll kill me, burn me at the stake or cut my head off––"

 _"Merlin."_

Merlin looked at him, barely breathing.

"If there are indeed documents in the vaults––and it's very possible that there aren't––those documents would have been written before the Great Purge. Before you were even born, Merlin. Just because they might mention Emrys does not mean that they will be your doom."

"But how can you know that? What if they say something like 'oh, there'll be a sorcerer hiding out in Camelot for ten years' or 'this Emrys person will have dark hair and blue eyes?'"

Gaius' voice turned gentle. "That's not how these things work, Merlin. Before you were born, Emrys was no more than prophecy and visions. Those are notorious for never giving straight answers; one vision can mean many different things, and there is no way to know for certain what it means until it is already happening."

"But we _don't know,"_ Merlin said, almost pleading. "We have to do something." That was the grounding sentence, the statement that brought Merlin back down and anchored him. "Maybe… if I can find the documents first, I can destroy them. No one will ever have to know."

"No, Merlin, you mustn't!"

"Why not? Arthur hates magic; why would he give Emrys a chance? Or _me?_ " At the shock on the physician's face, Merlin paused. "... Gaius, did you know about these? Did you know that there were documents in the vaults that had my name in them?"

Gaius was brave enough to keep his gaze level. "Not for certain, no."

"Not for _certain?_ So you knew that there _could_ be something there?"

A pause. "Yes."

Something hot and painful took root in Merlin's throat, something he couldn't swallow down. "You knew," he rasped. "Something like this, something with Emrys, and you knew that it could be there for Arthur to find."

"I did not know, Merlin; I only guessed. I was told nothing of them by Uther and know nothing for certain."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to do anything rash."

"I had a right to know!"

"I'm sorry, Merlin. It was what I thought was best."

Merlin let out a slow, shuddering breath. "We need to find them."

"Merlin, you must not harm those books."

"Why not?" Merlin asked desperately. "What else can we do? The investigation has to be stopped!"

"Merlin, you must listen to me." The physician placed a hand on his ward's shoulder. "If these books exist, and if they hold critical information, then we must decide how to handle them after we find them. There is an equal chance that there will be something too precious to destroy, and a still equal chance that there is nothing at all. They might just as well hold information that is critical to you, yourself. You must not go rushing into something you do not fully understand."

"But how do we know for certain?"

"I will volunteer to help the investigation. Geoffrey and Arthur both know that my knowledge covers many things; there is no reason they would refuse. Let me worry about the books; I'll see if I can't find them first, and delay the investigation if there is a need. In either case, I will tell you the moment we come across anything of note."

"But if they find them first..."

"They won't. I can assure you of that, at least."

"I have to do _something!"_

"But you mustn't destroy the books."

Merlin swallowed. "Maybe… maybe if they found answers before they found the books? If they found Emrys, there would be no reason to keep looking."

"What are you talking about, Merlin?"

"What if they found something else? Something magic? I don't know, just, something that could have been responsible for Morgana's magic failing. A crystal. A bracelet. Something, I don't know; maybe we could write 'Emrys' on it, or make it glow?"

"Neither of those would have any useful power."

"But they wouldn't know that. What does Arthur know about magic? He'd know if something is or isn't, but if he could tell that there was magic, what would he care about what it actually did? A trinket, nothing more; something that they could mistake as Emrys."

Gaius frowned. "Hmm. It could work in theory, but the king isn't an idiot, despite how much you complain about him."

"What other choice do I have?"

The physician sighed and was silent for a small while. Then, dropping his shoulders in defeat, he replied, "This is a dangerous path you're taking, Merlin." Not agreement, but acceptance.

"I'm a sorcerer that happens to be personal servant to a Pendragon. I've been walking a dangerous path for ten years, Gaius, and if I have to walk another, I will. However many paths it takes. He must never know who I really am."

* * *

While Merlin's life had never exactly been an example of wholeness, he found his time to be even more segregated than usual––day and night might as well have been different worlds with entirely different Merlins; one was a dazed blur of doing his best to suppress all emotion, and the other was a mind-splitting hell of terror as he evaluated his situation and tried to decide what to do next. Those two states were the defining pillars of his life: he would work, serve, and listen to every panic-inducing thunderclap of _Emrys_ on the lips of his friends, and he would pretend to be a normal well-adjusted person until the time came to go to bed, lock the door and rock himself to sleep under the steady beat of _oh god oh god oh god oh god_ cycling through his head. He was blessed that there were no dreams to be found at night, only darkness––the nightmare came when he woke up.

With Gaius occupied almost entirely by the investigation in the vaults, every day was an endless wheel of things to be done. Merlin was left alone keep attending Arthur, as well as become substitute physician in Gaius' absence and handle the odd case of injury or sickness. More work, always more work, and it left Merlin coming home to an empty house every night so he could have his customary end-of-the-day heartattack all by himself. With questions about the mysterious Emrys crushing him from all sides, everything was an illusion; the walls, the people, the years of friendship and trust, it was all cracking before his eyes and groaning under the weight of "Emrys." His name his name his name _they all knew his name._

Had there been any sense of peace in his life, Merlin probably could have come up with something stronger than what he eventually settled with, but it couldn't be helped; Gaius had assured him that there were chambers upon chambers of items to comb through and that he would do everything in his power to slow the investigation down, but even he couldn't stop it completely.

The reappearance of Morgana weighed heavily on Arthur's mind, and between the king, the queen and his new duties as the temporary physician, Merlin barely managed to scrape together half an hour of free time each day. Every moment he had to himself was used to for the fake Emrys. Merlin took whatever was on hand to craft his lie, which ended up being an odd collection of crystals and a fine ceramic place that Gaius had lying around. It took a few small glamours to make the plate change color and shine, and then an incantation to embed the crystals around the rim––and even those small things took a week and a half to make time for. Even after, Merlin could tell that the thing would need more work before it would fool anyone, but time was in alarmingly short supply.

There was still no word from Gwaine or Percival after two weeks of absence. Long enough to be unusual, but not long enough for anyone to declare foul play; Merlin could detect just a bit of extra tension in Arthur's stance, but Ismere wasn't exactly the most forgiving of terrain––it was entirely possible that word of the patrol was just a bit late.

By some miracle, Gaius managed to lessen his own duties and spend an hour or so each morning sharing breakfast with Merlin, which had to be enough for them both; without Gaius there, Merlin was fairly certain he would have gone insane. After some convincing, the old physician agreed that it would be too great a risk for Merlin to present the fake Emrys; once the item was finished, the physician reluctantly promised to bring the "talisman" to Arthur in the hopes of ending the search before the books were uncovered.

The night after they made their plan, Merlin was able to go to bed under the looming terror of three entire uncertainties: the books, the fake Emrys, and whether or not word of the patrol would arrive soon. Getting to sleep was an interesting task.

By the third week, Merlin could feel Arthur's worry over everything else. It wasn't a conscious choice to feel his king's every pain and doubt as if it were his own; it just sort of happened, and Merlin was used to it. There were thoughts taking form in Arthur's mind, even without needing to be spoken aloud; Arthur had never been content to wait when there was a question of danger––regarding personal friends, even less so. While Camelot waited for news of the patrol with bated breath, Merlin began to wait for the command that he knew was beginning to brew in Arthur's head: _Get your things, Merlin, we're riding out._

It took another week to finish the fake Emrys once and for all. A few incantations gave the thing a mirror-like sheen, and it took almost no effort at all to trap a bit of light in the crystals and give them an unearthly glow. After feeding a bit of his own raw magic into the talisman's being, the item hummed merrily with power that even a mundane person had the chance of picking up. The power didn't do anything useful, of course, but it didn't need to; so long as the magic was at least somewhat obvious, it would do the job. As a final touch, Merlin chose the first magical alphabet he could find in Gaius' books––which turned out to be the Sidhe language––and inscribed the rim with the word "Emrys, Emrys, Emrys," over and over until the entire circle was complete.

It wasn't much, but it was all Merlin could do with what he had. Once night fell, Merlin made his way through the castle with the fake under his shirt and planted it in the throne room behind a tapestry.

Then came the fifth week that they'd had no word from Gwaine or Percival. Elyan was commanded to head a search party for any trace of them, which left Guinevere as worried as Arthur on behalf of her brother. The name "Emrys" gave way to "Morgana" once more; there was concern about the fate of the knights and uneasiness about what their silence could mean, and for Elyan's own patrol. Arthur was the most concerned of them all; even through the haze of his own fear, Merlin could see worry growing to define every line of his king's body.

"Are you alright?" Merlin asked one night, some hours after Arthur had shouted at Sir Leon for breaking a training shield––one that had just so happened to have Merlin himself behind it.

Arthur answered by reflex. "Of course."

Merlin didn't dance around the issue; they both knew what was being unsaid. "How long do you plan on waiting if there is no news?"

A brief pause. "One more week. After that…" The implication was obvious enough that he didn't have to explain.

Gaius played his part well, when the time came. Just before dinner the following day, the old physician walked into the throne room and "discovered" a magical talisman hiding behind one of the tapestries. Arthur was called immediately, Merlin right behind him; they arrived to a small cluster of curious servants and two nervous guards trying to keep the onlookers from getting in the way.

"What's happened?" Arthur asked.

"Something's been found, sire," Gaius said calmly, gesturing to where Merlin's creation lay on the floor. The thing shimmered in the light of sunset, ringing faintly, and no one seemed willing to touch it.

No one but Arthur, who knelt down next to it and looked at the talisman with a frown.

"Be careful, sire," Gaius said. "It's magical."

"Yes, I can see that. Where did it come from?"

"It was discovered behind the tapestry over to the doorway," one of the attending guards informed him. "It was Gaius that heard it."

"Do you know what it is?" Arthur asked.

"A talisman, sire," Gaius replied seriously. "Some sort of magical instrument, surely, but I cannot know for what purpose."

"These markings here," Arthur said, pointing to the Sidhe letters etched in the rim. "Do you recognize them?"

"Yes, sire. An old dialect, said to be connected with fairies."

"Fairies?" The king didn't scoff, but he looked like he wanted to.

"Your majesty, I would suggest that you take this seriously. The letters on the talisman are very clear."

"What do they say?"

"Emrys."

That caught Arthur's attention. Merlin held his breath.

"Emrys. Are you absolutely sure that's what the inscription says?"

"Unmistakeable, sire."

Arthur looked down at the talisman and nudged it with his foot.

"Do you think, sire," Gaius said, "that perhaps this is what we've been looking for?"

"This? You think _this_ is Emrys?"

"Considering the inscription, I'd say it was certainly possible."

"But why would Morgana be scared of something like this? It doesn't make sense."

"Perhaps it somehow negates magical abilities? Morgana's magic failed her; perhaps this was responsible."

"No, that's impossible; it wasn't in the room when it happened. I would remember."

"It was hidden, sire."

"Yes, behind that tapestry there. Morgana does not follow the Pendragon crest; she uses the symbol of a red tree. All of the Pendragon banners and tapestries had been stripped from the throne room when we had our confrontation."

Merlin's stomach dropped. _Why hadn't he thought of that?_

Arthur frowned and stood. "The servants have been cleaning this room for years and never found anything like this." Then, to the guards, "One of you, bring this to the attention of the captain of the castle guard. Anyone who was out and about last night, I want them questioned. It's possible that someone might have snuck in."

Merlin and Gaius shared a glance. Merlin gulped.

"Right away, sire," said the shorter guard, moving to obey.

"Gaius, I want you to study this and see if you can determine its purpose. When you find anything, bring it to me immediately."

"Of course, sire."

Arthur turned on his heel and swept out of the room. Merlin had to jog to keep up.

"Are you sure it was planted?" Merlin asked breathlessly.

"Had to have been. There's no way that thing was in the room when we confronted Morgana."

"Maybe it was hidden, maybe… maybe it can turn invisible?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Arthur asked, making it clear in his tone that Merlin might as well have been speaking gibberish.

"Just, maybe, someone didn't plant it? Maybe it isn't new?"

"Nonsense. Last night, last week, last month, it doesn't matter; it wasn't there before, and now it is. Someone must have put it there; it didn't just sprout legs and walk into the throne room."

"How do you know? It's magic."

"Merlin?"

"Arthur?"

"You're talking rubbish again."

It took less than a minute silence for Arthur to grudgingly acknowledge that Merlin still wasn't happy.

"Look, Merlin, I know you're scared of practically everything, but I've seen enough of magic to know that it has to come from somewhere. If we can find out what that thing is and who put it there, then we'll more than likely find ourselves with more information about Emrys."

"And if you don't find him?"

Arthur sighed in exasperation. "Then we'll wait and see what Geoffrey finds in those documents, like we would have done before we found the talisman. So maybe you can stop sulking like a wounded wolf and go do the laundry like you were supposed to do this morning? I don't want any delays when Elyan returns."

Merlin's retort died in his throat, turning into genuine concern. "You've decided we'll go, then?"

"It's hardly a decision when there's nothing else to be done. If we don't have news, then yes, we will ride out after them."

Merlin knew better than to hope for news.

* * *

Elyan returned at the end of the sixth week. He reached Camelot at dawn, and by mid-morning the entire round table had received the summons to convene––save for Guinevere, who had gone mysteriously missing alongside Sefa. When two servants couldn't find them, Arthur rounded on Merlin and demanded with clenched teeth that his manservant find the queen, all in the five short minutes they had before the meeting started.

Sometimes Merlin wondered if Arthur actually did think he had magic powers.

So he ran. While it was true that protecting Camelot often required a great deal of running, the young warlock wasn't accustomed to running around the _entire castle,_ or up and down four entire flights of stairs. Twice.

Those who were out and about on their own business, well accustomed to the sight of the king's manservant charging down the halls like hellhounds were after him, moved out of the way to let Merlin pass unhindered. Gwen wasn't in the royal chambers, she wasn't in the council chambers, she wasn't wandering the halls––Gwen was nowhere at all.

Of course, Arthur didn't care that Merlin hadn't been the one to lose her in the first place; when the sorcerer dragged himself back to the throne room antechamber, he knew that the king would blame him for the loss of the queen. Not because it was his fault or anything, but just because Arthur was Arthur and Merlin was Merlin.

"Well?" Arthur asked the moment Merlin skidded to a halt.

"I've searched everywhere."

Arthur growled in annoyance. "Merlin, it's not just me you're keeping waiting."

Yes, of course they were going to have this conversation. "How is it my fault?"

"The queen can't just disappear."

"Well, where is she?"

Arthur looked quite ready to start hitting. "That's what I sent you to find out!"

"Do you know how big this castle is?"

"Funny enough, I do."

"Then perhaps you should have a look."

"Merlin, is there anything you're actually capable of doing?"

Merlin spent a moment staring. "Putting up with you."

"Oh––"

Someone cleared her throat, drawing the attention of them both.

"Guinevere!" Arthur said, lighting up.

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized, gesturing for Sefa to follow her down the stairs.

"Late?" Arthur replied. "Not at all. Plenty of time."

Merlin rolled his eyes. The two servants fell into place and shared a knowing look before following their monarchs into the throne room.

The members of round table were already seated and waiting. Merlin took up his stance by the window while Sefa stood opposite him against the wall; there was no time to waste, and everyone in the room was anxious.

"Noble knights of Camelot," Arthur boomed. "Countrymen. Friends. I welcome you to this meeting of the round table. For three long years we have been blessed with peace and prosperity, but now it seems a shadow has been cast across our lands. Sir Gwaine set off for Ismere some six weeks ago, with him went three score of our finest men. There has been no word from them since."

A ripple of unease went through the table, although no one spoke it aloud.

"At my request," Arthur continued, "Sir Elyan led a search party to the wastelands of the north. He found no trace of Gwaine or his men; it is if they have vanished from the face of the earth. I know that many of you have been preparing for this, and so I am looking for volunteers. At first light tomorrow I will be leading another search party for Ismere to either rescue our comrades or to determine what their fate has been. Volunteers, make yourselves known to Sir Leon in the next half-hour. Elyan, refresh yourself; I want both of you to meet me in my chambers at toll of the next hour to decide our course."

It barely felt like ten minutes before the five of them were convening in Arthur's chambers: Leon, Elyan, Guinevere, Merlin and Arthur, who were soon joined by Gaius. Maps were spread out on the table for the king to analyze, while the lot of them stood in a circle around him––minus Merlin, who stood quietly against the wall next to the door.

"We followed Gwaine and his men across the paths here at Tesorfall," Elyan said, pointing to the map. "But beyond that, there is no trace. The trail went cold."

Arthur frowned. "What of the story that the fortress of Ismere has been occupied once more?"

"I've heard many rumors, sire. All of them had one name in common: Morgana."

Merlin's stomach dropped. Arthur's didn't.

"Then we've no time to lose," the king decided.

"But what if the rumors are true, sire?" Gaius cut in. "You'd be walking into a trap."

"The knights of Camelot do not abandon their own." Yes, honor before reason always had been Arthur's mantra.

"Morgana knows that," Gaius reminded them. "She'll be waiting for you."

"These men have fought for me," Arthur reminded them back. "Bled for me."

"May I make a suggestion?" Gwen interjected. "What if you were to take a different route? Approach Ismere from the west."

Arthur glanced at the maps. "Through Annis' lands?"

"It would certainly take Morgana by surprise," Gaius said.

Arthur turned to Leon. "Would Annis grant safe passage to so many armed men?"

Leon answered after a moment's pause. "I believe she would, sire."

Arthur considered. Then, "Dispatch a rider immediately. We'll follow at dawn. But remember, if we are to succeed, no one must know of our intentions."

There were nods around the table. Sensing that the small meeting was closing, Merlin shifted from his silent stance against the wall and made for the door. One night left. One night to prepare for a patrol. One night to prepare for what Arthur might find out when they came back; if the investigation in the vaults continued... thoughts whirling, Merlin strode into the corridor––

––and straight into Sefa, whose platter of autumn fruit went in all directions.

"Sorry!" Merlin exclaimed, swooping down to snatch up those that were rolling away the fastest.

The small council left Arthur's chambers, each avoiding Merlin's mess with practiced ease. Only Gwen paused to flash a small smile at the two of them; Arthur was too busy to even throw off a snide comment.

"It's fine, really," Sefa said, scrabbling to get the fruit back onto the platter. "I'm the one who should apologize."

Merlin tilted his head. "What for?"

Sefa shrugged meekly. "I keep getting you into trouble."

"Eh, I'm used to it."

"Merlin," Arthur called from down the hall.

Sefa paused uncertainly.

"You should hear him when he's really angry," Merlin chuckled, handing fruit to her.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted.

Sefa paused again.

"Like now," the manservant said, looking up at her in defeat. "If you need help with anything, let me know."

Sefa chuckled, blushing faintly. Merlin bowed his head and elaborately offered her a lemon.

"Thank you," Sefa said, biting her lip.

Merlin smiled at her, then ran off to see to his king.

* * *

Sickness and Merlin were not common friends. Whether by his powers or by luck, the young warlock had never yet suffered from so much as a cold; what he was feeling couldn't possibly be sickness, and yet… sickness it was. Sickness of a different sort than could be treated by herbs and potions.

He couldn't even attempt sleep. He burned with something fierce and unyielding, something that coursed through his veins like liquid fire; he didn't dare sit down when he reached his room for fear that that fire would bring him to ashes. They weren't quite thoughts that fueled his sickness; what he felt was too deep and too vast to fit into things as small and clear as thoughts. Emotion. Instinct. Gut feeling. It flooded his every nerve until he might as well have been raging a fever; he knew in his bones that if he sat down, he wouldn't be getting back up.

So he waited. Paced. Gazed out the window. Paced more. Anything to keep his blood moving.

Anything to pass the time until he could hear Gaius begin to snore.

Merlin would never presume to think of Camelot or the palace as "his," but it might as well have been when the dark hours came; under the cover of nightfall, Merlin was little more than a brush of wind in the corridors. The patterns of the midnight patrols were as pressed into Merlin's memory as the passages themselves, and avoiding them was no more a challenge than playing the steps of a well-worn dance. The rooms, the dungeons, the vaults––it was all the same to him, and it was all his for the taking.

Even through the fire in his blood, Merlin was vaguely surprised at the number of guards clustered around the vaults. The vaults themselves were closed and locked, but the flicker of candlelight beyond the bars betrayed Geoffrey's presence. A a few moments of listening at the door, though, proved that the librarian was not awake. The man had always seemed happy enough to sleep at his desk in the library; Merlin wasn't surprised that he would sleep at his workplace in the vaults.

 **"Tospringe."** The gate clicked open quietly, and Merlin slipped inside.

Sir Kay, the young knight assigned to Geoffrey, seemed to have adopted the librarian's work policy; he slept curled up against a pillar, several ledgers in his hands. Merlin knelt by him and easing the ledgers from the knight's grip with practiced delicacy; he didn't want Kay to wake up without them, and a quick survey would give him what he needed.

There were two copies of the same information on different sheets of paper, one old and one new. The old ledgers were likely the official ones and remained unblemished, while the copies were peppered in notes and lists and check marks. Whatever Uther's intentions for the journals, he apparently had gone out of his way to make sure there was no mention of them on the official ledgers; Geoffrey and Kay had been forced to scour the vaults by hand and eye alone.

And from the look of things, they had already scoured the majority of the vaults. There were only two rooms in the back that remained unsearched––more than likely lined up for the next morning––and there were no guards posted in the vaults themselves. The knight and librarian were trusted too much for that. Once Merlin padded past the sleeping Geoffrey, he was alone.

Dread fire, cold logic or something less easily explained drew him straight to the final chamber of the vaults. He may not have been a librarian, but Merlin had known Uther better than he would have liked. While the man certainly like to play at being coldly logical, there were always things that could turn him irrational. Merlin couldn't fathom why he would have spared any books with mention of magic, but the mere chance that such a thing had happened was too great a risk to ignore. If such books existed, Merlin had to find them; he would search all night if necessary. He had to make sure that there was nothing Arthur could ever connect to him, despite what Gaius said. If there was one thing that Uther had never tolerated, it was evidence that challenged his own view of the world; if the old king hadn't been able to bring himself to destroy the books, then Merlin was certain that he would have wanted to put them somewhere that no one would ever find them.

Merlin didn't look at the shelves or the boxes. He knew instinctively that his quarry would not be there. In the very back room sat the oldest, creakiest shelves that housed the least useful and valuable items in the vaults. A helmet worn by a forgotten hero. A dagger that might have once been ornate and glorious to behold, but had long ago fallen to dullness and rust. A massive tome in a forgotten language. A white vase painted with blue flowers and deer. It was the last place anyone would expect to find anything of interest. And even after that lack of interest, it would take a thorough person indeed to think to look behind the shelves themselves. But when he was desperate, Merlin could be very thorough.

Thirty years of dust could not disguise the crate; even beneath the layer of gray it was clear that the item did not belong there. It was too new and too undamaged to be at home with the decaying treasures surrounding it, nevermind the fact that it had obviously been hidden there deliberately.

Forbaernan. The word itched in his throat, there for him to send forth to land on the dry wooden crate and the aging paper inside, but the word caught on his teeth and singed his tongue when he tried to say it. He couldn't. He _couldn't._ Something met him halfway and refused to let him speak, drowning his words and feeding the fire in his blood to near boiling.

Curiosity. The need to make sure.

Magic still waiting to be unleashed, Merlin reached behind the shelf and lifted the crate gently from its hiding place, set it on the ground and opened it. Inside were five books, each beautiful and fine in its own way, but no two alike. One was brown, another blue, though the last three were all varying shades of red, and all were tooled with gold or silver leafing.

He pulled the left-most book from its resting place, as gently as he would have taken a baby. It was the largest of them and the most worn, with simple brown leather binding that was cracked at the edges. A small circle of flying ravens had been tooled into the center of the cover.

Merlin took a deep breath opened the journal to the first page.

 _I am Ygraine Dubois of Tintagel,_ read the slanted, shaky letters. _I am four years old. My father is Galfrid Dubois, who is Lord of Tintagel. My mother is Morvaine Dubois, once of Northumbria and now of Tintagel. My nurse is bad._

The last sentence was crossed out, and beneath it, in much smoother and more practiced handwriting, was a response:

 _Bad is meaningless. If you are going to complain about me, at least use the time to practice proper vocabulary._

And then, in more child's writing: _My nurse is bad because she makes me practice vocabulary._

Beneath it, the nurse's writing was again apparent. _Much better. Here's a bird for you._

And beneath that sprawled an inked illustration of a flying raven, wings splayed in full and glorious detail. A reward for Ygraine's vocabulary. Beside it was another picture of a raven, blotchy and stick-like as only a child could draw.

Merlin tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling––anything except the book in his hands. Forbaernan died in his throat, but then it began to hurt––like it had hurt to put hemlock in the waterskin, or to ignore the mental shouts of a child begging not to die.

Forbaernan. So simple, so effortless, and all possibility of discovery would be gone. Merlin hadn't expected an internal war. Not tonight, when his entire future was at stake. Two forces struggled for control, one rationalized and prepared, the other reactive and idealistic. He hadn't... he hadn't expected it to be Arthur's mother.

Not since Morgana's poisoning had the conflict been so strong between his inner selves––between the self of Merlin the person and the self of Merlin the destiny. Years ago, he had chosen to betray Morgana because of what the choice came down to: her or Arthur. In the game of lives, Arthur would always win.

But now, the choice was suddenly coming down to Arthur... or himself.

 _Wednesday,_ the child's words said. _My nurse said that I should put the day at the beginning when I write. She says I should write once a week, and that some people even write every day. I don't believe her. Once I impress my mother at the end of the year, I'm never going to write a journal again._

 _Wednesday. It is summer. I went looking for strawberries with Tristan today, but it is too early and none of them are ripe yet. Tristan let me ride his shoulders when my nurse wasn't watching. He says that someday I might almost be tall as him, but when I said that I wanted to be taller than him, he laughed at me. I was angry, but then he found me a strawberry, the first one of the whole season, just for me. There is a bird on my window now. I think it is a lark. I wish my nurse could draw it for me, but she is not here right now. I will admire the bird from here._

Another page.

 _Sunday. Agravaine got out of the nursery today and I had to help find him. Not much else has happened, but I feel I must write anyway. I don't think I want to wait for Wednesdays anymore. It is my book, after all, so I should write whenever I please._

 _Friday. It is not Wednesday, but I shall write anyway, because it helps me remember. I look at my last writing and know that I can remember that Wednesday with the strawberry forever, whenever I wish. I want to remember this Friday forever, too, because it is Tristan's fourteenth birthday. There was a great feast, and Father even brought in a wizard! He was dressed strange, but he used magic, I'm sure of it. He made fire dance in the air around him like butterflies, changed the color of his cloak and even made his ears look like rabbit ears! And then he made_ _Tristan's_ _ears look like rabbit ears, and father laughed so hard he spilled wine all over himself, and then Tristan laughed so hard that potato came out of his nose! If I had such magic, I would go to all the birthdays in the land and make everyone laugh as Tristan and Father did. I don't think I have ever seen anything so wonderful as magic._

Merlin closed his eyes and took a shuddering breath. His fingers moved of their own will, lifting the yellowed pages until he had no choice but to look again, scanning deftly through the thoughts and feelings of the girl that lived there.

Summer. Blue skies and clouds shaped like houses. Even though he tried to skip over anything irrelevant to himself, his eyes caught on the fragments of her life that were trapped on the paper. The joy of the strawberries that were finally coming in. Berries and apples, and then leaves that changed colors by their own tree-magic. Her first pony, a short palomino that ran up to the fence whenever he saw her. Tristan teaching her how to ride.

She was nine years old when he finally caught another glimpse of the word "magic," and his eyes snagged on the page and forced him to go back and read the entries in their entirety. Her lines were straighter and her letters smoother.

 _Monday, 1st of November. I should have listened to mother's tales of spirits and Samhain. I suppose I've just never seen anything with my own eyes until now, but I believe wholeheartedly in this thing that plagues us. I didn't see the spirit that was released yesterday, but I heard it well enough. It was walking the halls last night, I could hear it clearly, but when I rose to look I found no one there. Father has brought in a young sorceress named Nimueh to vanquish it. She is an acolyte of the Triple Goddess, so the the servants say. I was in the great hall when Mother and Father received her from her journey. I don't know what I was expecting her to be, but she was not what I imagined. I suppose I thought her to be like the jester Father called upon so many years ago, kind and smiling and ready to laugh. But Nimueh, she is nothing like him. The jester is like a chattering sheep, and she like a lioness. She walks like some great beast of legend, proud and barefoot as if the November air is no bother at all. And her eyes… by all gods, I have never seen anything so blue. She looked at me as she passed by, just once, and I could not move, she ensnared me so. I was like a rabbit that had been caught admiring a hawk._

 _Tuesday, 2nd of November. The spirit is vanquished. Nimueh was true to her word. Tristan convinced Father to let her stay another day, so that she might rest and prepare for her return journey. She lives in a place called the Isle of the Blessed––just saying the name makes me shiver––and I know this because she told me so herself. I don't know how I gathered the courage to speak to her, but I did. She was walking in the gardens, no shoes, no robe or cloak, just the red dress that she arrived in. The one with no sleeves. Does her magic shield her from the cold? I don't know; I didn't think to ask once I'd convinced myself to join her. She didn't look at me; her eyes were closed, but she walked the path as if they were open. I followed her awhile, and I am sure now that she sensed me coming the instant I put my feet on the open earth. She walked with closed eyes out of the gardens and between the berry thickets until we reached the little rowan tree by the brook, and it was there that she turned and opened her eyes to look at me. She must have known I was struck dumb with awe, because she folded herself onto the ground beneath the rowan and patted the space beside her for me to sit. It did not occur to me that I could even refuse. She waited for me in my own time, until I took back my voice and began to speak. I remember so little of what I said myself––foolish questions about her health and how she was enjoying her stay and how lovely her hair was––but I remember every word she said to me. I must have asked her about what she was doing outside, because her words turned toward magic. She spoke of the power in the earth below us, in the sky above us, woven into the wind around us. Her magic is of the Old Ways, which is the very fabric from which the world is woven. Her magic is her worship, because to shape magic is to shape the world itself. I love Tristan, but I was on the verge of cursing him when he came to summon us to supper. How vast and great is this thing called magic. A hundred days of Nimueh would not be enough to understand._

 _Wednesday, 3rd of November. Nimueh is gone, and the world continues._

Merlin forced himself to skim the rest, desperate to find some further mention of Nimueh. There was none, not on that page, not on the next nor the one after. The last page was turned and the book ended. Swiftly, Merlin returned the journal to its place and picked up the next.

At ten years old, Ygraine's skill with a pen was growing. Gone were the short, simple entries of before; they soon began to fill entire pages with the events of single days passing by. Winters. Summers. Birthdays. Tristan. Agravaine.

Thirteen years old, and there were a hundred silent questions wondered under the leaves of the rowan tree. Horses. Mathematics. A love for the number twelve. A red-haired stable boy that taught her what those little flutters in her chest meant. The pain of first heartbreak when the boy left to care for his ailing father in the next town over. Spinning wheels and lullabies. Weaving tokens for Tristan when tourneys and melees called him to Camelot.

Fourteen, fifteen years old, and then the weight of realizing that a woman's days of unmarried freedom were numbered, and that her numbers were beginning to run too long. Worry, yes, but worry that was placed aside for more immediate pleasures like friends and conversation––and burning excitement when it was finally time to see Camelot for the first time with her father and brother. Worry for marriage could be put off.

Her first sight of Uther Pendragon.

 _He's such an austere young man,_ she wrote of him. _I wonder why. His father is likewise so, but they seem to barely speak to one another. Everything I'm told a prince should be, Uther is: poised, unyielding, courteous. Nothing less and nothing more. I wonder who he is underneath it all. I'm sure father would know more than I; he and the king have been in private counsel since we arrived. At least Tristan and Agravaine how to stay lively; I think I'd go mad with all the seriousness if they weren't here._

Another day of tourneys and jousting, and then, quite unexpectedly, Uther returned to the fore. What followed was shock; an engagement had been arranged between Ygraine and Uther by their fathers. She was to marry him after her seventeenth birthday and become princess of Camelot. Tristan was unhappy with it and argued with their father, although they both tried to pretend they didn't.

Back to Tintagel to wait two more years, and Merlin looked for more. Suppers, rainstorms, the small events that built a lifetime; it was those small things that filled the pages, and nothing at all of Uther or magic. The book came to an end, and Merlin moved on to the next one––an ornate black leather book with gold leafing at the edges.

Sixteen years old. A reunion with the red-haired stable boy, who turned out to have married in the absence. Tristan becoming engaged to the daughter of another noble house, continuing to argue with his father over Ygraine's fate. Agravaine's growing skill with the horse and sword, and his desire to seek fortune as a knight of Camelot outside their father's wing.

Seventeen years old, and the journal ended a few pages after her birthday.

The next journal was one of the red books, with a golden dragon etched in the cover. The first entry wasn't even dated:

 _A gift from Camelot. I suppose someone must have told Uther or his father that I was in need of a new one. They might as well have just sent me a book with the official Pendragon crest on the front._

What followed was more entries of the everyday, until there was suddenly an entry with only a single line.

 _Thursday, 14th of January. We are on our way to Camelot._

 _Friday, 15th of January. We have arrived._

What followed was deceptively plain. Snowfall. A beautiful tapestry. Her new handmaiden. Nothing of the future, only the immediate present. Until, finally, it ended with another single line.

 _Monday, 29th of February. I am Ygraine Pendragon of Camelot._

Then, far below at the bottom of the page, in smooth and rolling script:

 _Here it is, then. I'd thought I'd lost it after all these years. No help, for it; I suppose. Perhaps I will give this to Arthur someday and ask him to finish it._

The rest of the book, which was nearly two thirds, was entirely blank.

The next book was also red, though without the gold dragon.

 _Gods, has it really been a year since I last opened a journal? I'd always thought I'd find my last one, but it seems that putting it off hasn't done me any favors. Now that I write again, I find myself at a loss for things to write about. I'm eighteen now. I've been married for a year. I've had no children yet. Agravaine has finally become a knight. Father is ailing, so Tristan has taken responsibility for Tintagel. It is the same for Uther's father, although the king is more gravely ill. Some fear he will not recover. Uther may play at being the stoic, but I see how it hurts him. I wish I knew how to soothe his heart. June 7th._

Mentions of Uther, and of Ygraine's life at Camelot. The entries skipped, sometimes past days, sometimes past months. May, August, December; Merlin was managing to overlook them––until he saw a familiar name again.

 _Wednesday, 28th of December. I'd never thought to see Nimueh again. She is unchanged from the day I first saw her; barefoot and sleeveless, even in the depths of winter. She's come by Gaius' summons to see the king, because not even Alice can heal my womb. Nimueh's power clings to her like a wet cloak; if she says she can give us a child, I dare to believe her._

Merlin took a breath and closed his eyes, unprepared for the grief that was welling up. It was foolish to grieve for someone he'd never met and didn't know, but… no. No, he couldn't let himself be distracted. He had come here for a reason. His name. He was here for his name. If Ygraine had known his name, he had to find it. He had to protect himself. He couldn't afford to grieve.

The thought of forbaernan was making him feel ill in a whole new way.

January. February. Uther. Nimueh. Entries skipped months or else were made in several days clustered together. Dragons? Pregnancy. Choosing names.

Emrys.

 _Emrys,_ the entry began, with neither day nor month to announce it. _That's what the Druids call him. "Immortal," in their tongue, although I don't think they use the word for anything other than him; they have new words for immortality and immortal creatures. Is Emrys an immortal creature? He must be, with what the prophets say of his power. An immortal sorcerer, protecting my son! I still find it hard to imagine. It seems so strange for a mother to know more about her son's guardian than her son himself. But I know that I've only scratched the surface._

The next bit was hastily scrawled; not an entry, but a collection of notes jotted down as quickly as possible.

 _Emrys. Mithras. Ambrosius (or not?) The Dragon King (double-reference? Get clarification.) Tail end of Essitir, find the old dragon. Dragonlord? Ask Nimueh._

 _I catch myself looking for Emrys sometimes. I wonder where he is at this exact moment. Maybe he'll arrive closer to the birth? I can't wait to meet him; I have so many questions. I'll make sure my son knows who he is in case he's late. Uther thinks I'm mad, but doesn't seem to mind too much. News is spreading; sorcerers are coming to Camelot now that they know the red dragon is soon to come. I've seen more than one wearing something like the Pendragon crest, but with a white dragon instead of a gold, and still others with a red dragon instead. Arthur is going to make me so proud. Once Emrys is arrives, I know that Arthur will have nothing to fear in this world._

A door clanged in the distance, and Merlin jerked his head up, gasping for breath. There was a voice, young and meek; a servant, asking if breakfast should be brought down to the vaults.

Oh no. No no no no––had he really been here all night? The warlock snapped the book closed and shoved it hastily back into the crate.

 _Emrys. An immortal sorcerer. Protecting Arthur._

It was too much, but at the same time it was nothing. Ygraine wrote of name and prophecy; nothing that could be traced to Merlin––but he hadn't read more than a page or so. Could she know more? Could there be something in there that would damn him beyond doubt?

Sir Kay sneezed and asked something of Geoffrey. Merlin realized with a jolt that he was trapped in the chamber; there was one way out, and that was through the main vaults.

And Merlin was supposed to be ready to leave Camelot by sunrise.

Someone was walking deeper into the vaults, someone too young to be Geoffrey. Sir Kay?

He was going to find Merlin. Oh god, he was going to find the journals.

"Hello?" asked Sir Kay.

And Merlin had been careless enough to leave the door ajar. There was the scrape of a sword being drawn.

"Geoffrey," Kay called out. "Get the guards; I think someone's in the vaults!"

No no no no no no no––

"Declare yourself!" Kay said through the crack in the door. "I am a knight of Camelot and you will reveal yourself, or face the consequences. You have five seconds."

Forbaernan. One word, and Merlin could destroy the journals and any evidence of Emrys they possessed. One word, and Merlin could destroy everything that was left of Arthur's mother. Just _one word._

"... Two, one!"

Sir Kay burst through the door.

 **"Swefe nu!"**

Sir Kay collapsed into sleep. Merlin darted past him and pressed against a corner, peering after Geoffrey. The old man's age was working against him; Geoffrey hadn't even made it to the entrance of the main chamber by the time Merlin stopped him.

 **"Swefe nu."**

Geoffrey sank to the ground, and Merlin took care to reach out with his magic and catch him. Kay was young enough to endure a sudden fall; Geoffrey, less so. But even with both of them sleeping, Merlin didn't have any time to lose; servants or guards would be down to check at any moment, and it was already morning––if Arthur hadn't sent someone to look for Merlin already, he would soon. Merlin had to act _now._

 _Destroy the journals._ It was funny how often Merlin's logical side sounded like Kilgarrah.

Forbaernan. That was all it would take. They were right there, still in the chamber where he'd been reading them. Merlin gritted his teeth and returned to kneel beside the crate.

Forbaernan. _Just do it,_ Kilgarrah's voice echoed _._ Merlin needed to protect Arthur. To protect Arthur, he had to stay by his side. To stay by his side, he had to stay hidden. To stay hidden, Arthur couldn't know him by Emrys.

And to do that, he had to betray Arthur in a way that could never be undone nor forgiven.

Forbaernan, and Arthur would never have the chance to know his mother.

* * *

Arthur was annoyed. Not that he wasn't used to Merlin being late without permission and barely keeping up even when times were easy, but the king was less inclined to forgive whenever lives were on the line––especially the lives of his friends. Gwaine and Percival were missing, and Arthur couldn't afford to waste a single moment.

So when Merlin _finally_ sprinted into the courtyard, Arthur felt well within his rights to throw his waterskin at him. And then to take it back when he realized it was his only one.

"Why the hell have you been?" the king demanded.

"I overslept."

"Oh, you overslept. Good to hear you had such a good night's rest; I assume that means you'll be more than happy to take a few extra hours of the night's watch."

Merlin tilted his head and gazed back without the annoyance or anger Arthur had been expecting. Merlin narrowed his eyes and looked at him with a cold, hollow expression… something Arthur had never seen before.

Perhaps Merlin was simply worried. That had to be it.

"On your horse, Merlin, or we'll be leaving you behind."

Arthur turned to the gathered volunteers, giving his manservant a moment to mount his black mare, and then gave the order.

"Let's move out."

* * *

Wow, this chapter was a chore to write. Sorry for the absurd length; I'd hoped to get deeper into the Arthur's Bane ep, but it looks like we've just barely started. The next chapter will be shorter, I promise.

In other news, I now have a P. atreon! If you feel like helping out a starving writer, becoming a patron will let you see chapters a week in advance (pre-editing) ask questions and vote on story decisions! (like should Sefa live?) If you're interested, my handle is Laughing Cat Dog.

In any case, thanks so much for all the positivity! I'm glad to know y'all are liking it! Next chapter or so should be almost entirely centered around the events of the Arthur's Bane episodes, but I've done my best to make them not-boring for those who have already seen them. Fingers crossed, and thanks for reading!


	6. Foresight

Merlin was uneasy, and he didn't know why. He was worried for their missing friends, of course, but that wasn't quite it. The path ahead of them was clear and unchallenged and the weather ideal for travel, but neither of those gave Merlin any comfort. It couldn't possibly be the Emrys mess; he was leaving all that behind in Camelot. With the knowledge that whatever happened there would be irrelevant until they actually got back, Merlin could almost relax in the certainty that here, now, while he and Arthur were traveling, there was nothing to fear.

Almost. Because he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, no matter how much he wanted to.

None of the others seemed to share the feeling; the patrol moved with practiced quickness, efficient and obedient. Arthur rode at the head with Merlin at his side––not at all the traditional place for a manservant, but Merlin, like Guinevere, was one of those non-traditional facts of Arthur that simply _were;_ the older knights had long since just accepted that Merlin and Arthur were near-physically attached, and the newer knights had never known anything different. There were soft comments and jokes between one or two riders here and there, but for the most part they remained focused on the task at hand. And because Merlin was the only one who seemed to feel uneasy, he got the chance to question his own sanity as well as the safety of their friends.

"Do you really think Gwaine and Percival could still be alive?" Merlin asked in an attempt to distract himself.

"I have to find out," Arthur replied. "Knights of the round table––it's a bond we share."

"I understand," Merlin said, holding back a sigh. He understood very well.

"If it was you who disappeared, Merlin, I wouldn't bother."

"Hmm."

Arthur shot Merlin a concerned look, but said nothing more.

Merlin's sense of general unease only grew stronger as they approached the border. The trees around them thinned and the grass became short and gray, eventually giving way entirely to rocky scrubland. That scrubland fell immediately into a sharp gorge of jagged stone and howling wind.

"The gorge marks the start of Annis' lands," Arthur informed them.

"It's prime ambush territory," Elyan said.

Arthur nodded. "Take some men, follow the ridgeline."

Merlin's uneasiness sharpened as they descended into the gorge. He remained alert, preparing for a shout of alarm or any movement that wasn't supposed to be there. He fell back a few yards behind Arthur, near a cluster of foot soldiers where no one would be paying attention to him if magic became necessary. While his gut feelings had never been very clear, they had almost always been herald to matters of importance; something was coming, Merlin could feel it, and the fact that he didn't know what it was just put him even more on edge.

And then Elyan came cantering from up ahead with his men behind him, meeting them halfway down the gorge after completing their survey of the ridgeline.

"There's something you need to see," Elyan said grimly.

Uneasiness to a turn to anxiety. The patrol took a moment to regroup, then made their way down the throat of the gorge. The walls widened suddenly, curving outward until the passage became more akin to a small valley––and inside that valley was a village. Merlin was taken by surprise; he was accustomed to hearing and feeling the presence of villages long before he came into sight of them, but there was no sound to announce the community.

The village was silent.

It took a moment for Merlin to spot the bodies; they were dressed in almost the same colors as the rock and grass, save for the black splatters dried into their clothes. His heart sank and his anxiety piqued.

The sorcerer felt Arthur's saddened sigh more than he heard it and settled into his familiar spot at the king's shoulder. The entire patrol drew their swords without needing to be asked. Slowly, cautiously, they advanced through the silent village, checking for survivors and for signs of what had happened. Merlin's every nerve was alive and ready to fight, and he thought defeatedly that they shouldn't have come this way––or, at the very least, that they should leave as quickly as possible.

Save for the occasional colored decoration, the village was almost entirely gray. Once it became clear that there was no danger hiding in wait for them, the knights fanned out to comb through the buildings. With Arthur in the thick of the group, Merlin felt comfortable striking out on his own; if there was something here causing his strange feeling, he wanted to see if he could find it without putting Arthur in harm's way.

 _… Em...rys…_

It could have been the wind for how faint it was. Had Merlin not recognized his name, he would have likely assumed it was just that, but it wasn't the first time he had heard his name from thin air. So the young warlock opened his mind and listened, wandering slowly in the direction it had seemed to come from.

 _… Emrys…_

Louder, stronger; Merlin turned, catching the source in an instant. There was a narrow cave cut straight into the wall of the surrounding gorge, dark and quiet but nevertheless where the voice had come from. Magic ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice, Merlin took a breath and entered the cave.

His first assumption was that it had to be a mining shaft of some sort, but a few moments of walking revealed rickety wooden furniture and a dead fireplace. And at the very, very back of the cave, rippling softly, was a pool of water.

 _Emrys._

The old man lay against the rim of the pool, crumpled and broken and on the brink of death. Although he was already cold and still, Merlin could still feel the barest hints of life curling off him like steam. The old man was calling him without words, and Merlin relaxed his guard and came close to peer at his wounds. While they were all far beyond Merlin's skill to heal, the sorcerer did spot something on the man's outstretched wrist: a Druid triskelion, overlaid with a yellow coil.

Knowing that the man was a Druid just made it all the more painful to see him dying. Merlin's magic fell to rest. He reached out to bring the symbol into better light, and then jumped when a weak and aging hand snapped closed on his arm. The man's eyes were open, frantic and desperate. Merlin was on edge again.

"What happened to you?" Merlin asked. "Who did this to your village?"

The man shifted. "That it happened at all is all that matters." His voice was deep and ragged with pain. "I have been haunted by this moment for many years––since long before you set foot on this earth, Emrys, I've waited for its arrival with sorrow in my heart. For even as Camelot flowers, so the seeds of her destruction are being sown."

He pulled Merlin forward with the last of his strength. Merlin did not resist; every fiber of his being was locked into place. His anxiety was roaring back to life, and it was becoming fear.

"The prophets speak of Arthur's bane," the man said with everything he had left. "You would do well to fear it, for it stalks him like a ghost in the night. Unless you act quickly, Emrys, even you cannot alter the never ending circle of his fate."

The elder's breath left him in a great sigh, and he fell back against the rim of the pool. His hand slipped from Merlin's, striking the surface of the water, and beneath the ripples the water began to change. Before the warlock's eyes, the cave reflection shattered, falling into a darkness that drew him down and swallowed him whole.

Far, far away from the cave, Merlin was floating above a battlefield. The sky was as red as fire, and the ground littered with bodies clad in the colors of Camelot. All around him echoed shouting and the clang of metal on metal, which set his bones rattling until he couldn't even think of moving.

And as the scene materialized below him, so too did a shock of wavy black-brown hair. While much of the battlefield was blurred and foggy, this was absolutely clear. The man below looked young, but he moved with conviction and confidence. His armor was as close-fitting as a second skin, the sword in his hand comfortable and well-used. He stepped over the dead without a second glance, moving steadily towards another man who was thick in the throes of battle.

Arthur.

Merlin was seized by a cold and all-consuming terror that held him in place, even as he struggled against what he realized was about to happen. _Get away from him!_ he tried to scream, but he was incapable of doing anything but watching helplessly.

Arthur stopped fighting when he caught sight of the stranger, a look of surprise and confusion spreading across his face. He tilted his head and watched, ignoring Merlin's silent screams of _What are you doing?! Run! Run!_

The stranger looked back at Arthur, and Merlin saw his face for the first time––and it was inexplicably familiar. Where had he seen this man before? He was younger than Merlin had assumed, not possibly older than nineteen or twenty, but there was no trace of innocence to be seen in those eyes. His eyes were blue, cold and empty of anything but hate.

But Arthur… Arthur looked nothing but heartbroken.

The stranger closed the distance between himself and Arthur. Arthur didn't raise his sword until the last possible second to block.

 _No! Please!_ Merlin saw how Arthur was leaving himself open, and oh god he could see it before it happened and he was completely, utterly helpless. He struggled, prayed, begged to whatever force had brought him here to _let me go, just please let me help him I can't watch this let me save him please!_

The black-haired man's sword twisted without hesitation. Merlin didn't see the strike itself, but he felt it, right through his bones as if it was him under the blade.

Arthur fell to his knees, and there were no more words––Merlin was just screaming, consumed by terror and confusion as his soul was ripped in half and left to bleed out on the battlefield below.

"Is he alive?"

Merlin gasped and looked up. The cave, the old man, the pool of water––the vision was torn away in the blink of an eye, and Merlin was back where he'd been all along.

With Arthur standing there in the doorway, watching him.

 _Oh thank god_ was the first thing Merlin felt, followed immediately by the crushing need to get himself under control before anything was given away. But Arthur still caught a glimpse of the hurricane behind Merlin's eyes, taking a few concerned steps closer.

"What is it?" Arthur asked.

Merlin looked back at the water, both in an attempt to catch the vision again and to reel himself back down. The old man was dead; he could feel it without looking and Merlin shook his head to answer Arthur's first question.

"Come on, Merlin, you've seen a dead body before." If the king wondered about what was really wrong, he showed no sign and turned to leave. "As soon as we give these people a proper burial, we're moving out."

He turned his back and left to make it so. Merlin was suddenly alone, and he sank to his knees to process what he had just experienced. Red. Battle. Being suddenly torn in half. _Arthur._

 _The prophets speak of Arthur's bane. You would do well to fear it, for it stalks him like a ghost in the night. Unless you act quickly, Emrys, even you cannot alter the never ending circle of his fate._

"Merlin!" Arthur called, demanding and familiar and alive.

Merlin clambered onto unsteady feet, wiping his eyes and pulling himself together. Somehow, some way, Arthur was in mortal danger.

And for the first time, Merlin wasn't sure if he had the power stop it.

* * *

Every time he closed his eyes, there was only the fire of the red battlefield. The day's travel was nothing compared to what he had seen; Merlin lay awake without relief that night, listening to the sounds of the others falling asleep one by one until only he was left. Although Arthur was not the loudest, he was nevertheless the one that Merlin heard most clearly; even across the yards of space between them, Merlin could hear the steady rhythm of his breath as if they were right next to each other. In. Out. A short half-snore. A shift in the bedroll to get comfortable.

If he listened closely enough, Merlin could hear Arthur's heartbeat.

Only when all was safe did the warlock rise from his blankets and pick his way out of the camp. With questions and visions boiling inside and the man responsible already dead, there was only one who had any chance of bringing relief.

In the three years since they had last seen each other, Kilgarrah had not changed a bit. His landing shook the ground and threw dust into the air, but the smile died on his face when he saw the look on Merlin's.

"I'll assume that it is not a social call that brought me here," Kilgarrah guessed. "Although it is good to see you again."

"You as well," Merlin replied, although the words felt hollow under the shadow of everything else.

"What is it you seek from me, young warlock?"

"I need to know about a Druid symbol. A black spiral, within it a thin yellow coil."

The dragon looked surprised. "It is the mark of a Vatis, a Druid seer. Where did you encounter him?"

"My journey here. He warned me of Arthur's bane?"

"His _bane?"_

"Then he showed me a battle. A terrible battle. Arthur was fighting for his life. I saw him wounded. I saw him… fall."

Kilgarrah's eyes narrowed. "The Vatis power of prophecy is unrivaled, even by a High Priestess."

Merlin tried to swallow. "So this battle will come to pass?"

"I do not know, young warlock, but one thing is certain: this was no chance meeting."

Breathing took a conscious effort. "Do you think I should heed his warning?"

"There was a time when the words of a Vatis were considered a gift."

Merlin couldn't help an empty smile, because of course Kilgarrah wouldn't just outright answer the question. "Then why do they feel like a burden?"

"A wise man is not cowed by knowledge. Instead, he uses it to guide him."

"How?"

"That is something only you can decide. But remember, the Vatis singled you out for a reason. Now more than ever, it is you and you alone that can keep Arthur safe."

* * *

Arthur could feel a vague sense of anticipation emanating from his men once they found the river that ran through the heart of Annis' lands. The journey had been forgiving so far, but there was still general excitement at the thought of real beds and food.

The only one who seemed unaffected was Merlin, who'd barely spoken a word since the massacred village. Arthur could feel something weighing on the man's mind, but didn't ask for it to be volunteered––Merlin had had his quiet stretches before, but they always went away in the end. Perhaps it really had been a reaction to the carnage they'd come across.

They were received with warmth and welcome. After having their horses stabled, the entire company was led to the throne room where the steel-eyed ruler sat waiting for them on her throne.

"Queen Annis," Arthur greeted.

"Arthur Pendragon," she replied, standing to come and meet them halfway.

"I am most grateful that you've allowed us safe passage through your kingdom."

"We are allies, Arthur," Annis reminded them. "And these are troubled times." With a gesture, the queen led them from the throne room into the depths of her castle.

* * *

Sefa was concerned. She knew that it was wrong to feel concern for the queen, but she felt it regardless; Guinevere was wasn't completely present when they sat down for dinner.

"I can't eat this," the queen said when her food was put before her. "I'm sorry."

Sefa took it away. "I'll get you something else, my lady."

"No." Guinevere caught Sefa's arm. "If you could just sit with me?"

Sefa hesitated, but obeyed.

Gwen smiled and moved her plate of food towards Sefa. "Are you hungry?"

Sefa's jaw dropped as if Gwen had set down a plate of jewels.

"Eat," Gwen insisted.

Slowly, as if it was made of porcelain, Sefa picked up a strawberry.

"You think I'd be used to it by now," Gwen sighed, "not knowing if he'll return."

"You love him. I understand."

"Do you have someone you worry about?"

Sefa looked down and nodded.

The queen smiled. "But not someone you can talk about." Since the embarrassment of the sewing session, Gwen had been kind enough to step back on the matter of Merlin.

Sefa smiled back gratefully. "No, my lady." To change the topic, she turned back to Gwen's sadness. "There is no greater warrior than the king. He will return."

"I know." Gwen sighed and grabbed Sefa's hand. "You're right. Thank you."

* * *

Neither Arthur nor his men had expected a feast, but none of them had any mind to refuse it when they were summoned to Annis' hall. The men took their seats eagerly, while Arthur took a place of honor at Annis' side where they could discuss matters unhindered.

Merlin stood in the shadows behind Arthur's right shoulder where he always did, leaning silently against a pillar to wait for Arthur's cup to run dry. Arthur had been hoping that a warm bed and celebration would shake his servant out of the silence that had fallen over him, but Merlin refused to even rise to comments about his intelligence. Something was wrong, and Arthur was beginning to wonder if it was more than the village.

"What you saw as Asgorath is no surprise," the queen said when the scene was described to her. "Some months ago, Saxons began raiding our villages. They're rounding up all the men they can find and taking them to Ismere."

Arthur frowned. "To raise an army?"

"People say Morgana is tearing the citadel apart."

"Why?"

"She must be searching for something. I dare not think what."

"Then... my men may still be alive."

"Yes, there is every chance."

Hope blossomed in Arthur's chest. Merlin slipped quietly over his shoulder to pour more wine, inadvertently drawing the queen's attention.

"I think it's time for some entertainment," Annis decided. "I would _love_ to see your fool perform. Given all his failings, he must have some skills."

There was a pause. Merlin's smile said _'Thank you for the attention,'_ but his eyes said _'I swear to god Arthur, if you agree...'_

Arthur met his manservant's gaze. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Then, without even breaking a smile: "You heard the queen. Jump to it."

Merlin leaned close, so only Arthur could hear the bloody murder in his voice. "I'm not a fool."

"That's debatable."

Merlin looked to the nearby Leon for help, but found none; Leon was biting his lip viciously to keep from laughing.

"And I don't have any skills," Merlin added.

"I know that, but we can't refuse the queen when she's granted us safe passage, can we?"

 _You cannot be serious,_ Merlin said with his eyes.

 _Just watch me,_ Arthur replied, breaking into a smile and clapping to announce the entrance of the Camelot fool. _Maybe this will lighten your mood._ The rest of the room joined in, and then all eyes were on Merlin.

The manservant smiled mirthlessly and straightened, making his way to the front of the room as all the knights snickered after him. Arthur sat back, no longer trying to suppress his silly grin; whatever idiocy Merlin came up with, at least he wouldn't be sulking anymore.

Merlin bowed, plastering a pleasant smile across his face, and produced three eggs from nowhere. Arthur blinked, half surprised that Merlin had even managed to hold them without breaking them.

Then Merlin began throwing them into the air. One, then two, rhythmic and practiced, and then…

No. No, that was impossible. Merlin… Merlin couldn't juggle.

Merlin was juggling.

What.

Merlin switched his pattern, then tempo, and sent one of the eggs went flying high into the air. He locked eyes with Arthur, his smile burning with challenge, and then he leaned forward and caught the egg with both hands behind his back. He didn't even look at the damn thing.

And then there were suddenly four eggs. Annis chuckled, quite pleased with it all.

Arthur just sat there and stared as if watching Merlin grow a third arm.

When Merlin juggled all four of the eggs, the teasing snickers of the knights turned into impressed silence; Merlin picked up the speed until Arthur was absolutely certain that he was going to break one of them. Any second now. He had to break one of them.

Merlin stopped juggling, caught all four eggs smoothly and put his hands behind his back. He once again locked challenging eyes with Arthur, and then brought his hands around for all to see––entirely empty.

Applause and cheers broke out across the hall, and Merlin turned around just to show them that the eggs actually had vanished. Of them all, Annis was the one cheering loudest. More than one knight of Camelot was voicing his awe––Elyan chief among them––and even Leon was laughing in open-mouthed amazement.

For the first time in a while, Merlin's smile seemed genuine. If only for that, Arthur let his heart lift.

The quiet darkness was back once the feast ended and the time came to sleep. Merlin put the room in order with uncanny efficiency, to the point that Arthur seriously pondered how on earth the man could be so incompetent so often if he was capable of getting things done so quickly. When all was ready and it was _Arthur_ who was being slow, Merlin pulled up a stool by the fire and stared quietly into the flames as he waited for the king to get ready for bed.

When the silence grew too long to ignore, Arthur tried to raise the mood with banter. "Where did you learn to juggle like that? Honestly, I didn't know you could catch."

"Yes, well, I have many talents that you've failed to notice and that's all."

Arthur waited for a few moments to see if anything would follow.

"Come on," he said when nothing did. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

For a small pause, there was silence. Merlin continued to gaze into the fire, but Arthur knew he'd heard him. When his friend finally turned, the heaviness in his eyes was startling.

"I'm not sure we should go to Ismere," Merlin said quietly.

Arthur blinked. That was what this was about? "Did you not hear Annis? My men are alive."

"You don't know that."

"Stick to juggling, Merlin. Leave important things to me."

"But––"

"Here." Arthur tossed over his boots. Merlin tried and failed to catch them. "See? Explain that."

There was the ghost of a smile, brief and dim, but nothing more. "Wish I could."

* * *

Camelot grew quiet quickly once the sun went down. There was a general sense of comfort and security that possessed everything, even under that looming shadow of Morgana. Sefa left Gwen to her own bedtime routine, though only after some insistence on Gwen's part; they had both stayed up a bit late and the queen was clear that Sefa was to get to bed at a decent hour.

Well, at least the thought was nice.

As soon as she was relieved of her duties, Sefa went to gather her cloak. There was a sharp chill in the air, and she didn't know how long her trip would take, but her hands hesitated. Something held her in place before she lay her hands on the clothing. Guilt? No, it couldn't be; it was wrong to feel guilty about what she was doing. The guards didn't seem to pay her much mind as she made her way out of Camelot, simply assuming she was one of the last few citizens who were either still finishing up work or on their way to the tavern. She didn't earn a second glance when she slipped through the city gates and into the forest beyond.

Her destination was a few minutes' walk, though sheltered enough to not be obvious. Old ruins that might have once been a manor were cradled in a shallow depression within the forest floor, cold and dark and apparently empty, but the real shelter lay underneath. A flight of decaying stairs opened into a massive chamber underground, where stone pillars were kept strong by the roots and plants embracing them. Sefa hesitated at the sight, but she'd been so certain that this was where she was supposed to go.

And then she saw the light of torches, and knew with relief she'd come to the right place.

A raven was perched beyond the skeleton of the entryway, and he cawed indignantly when Sefa brushed past him. Beyond that, between two old weathered pillars, knelt a man. His hair was silver, his arms strong and unwavering as he held them out as if to catch rain that wasn't falling. He chanted something low and rhythmic that only became clearer as Sefa moved closer; it was the language of magic, doubled as prayer. The silver-haired warrior was entirely engulfed in what he was doing, so Sefa tried her best to approach quietly.

Although in hindsight, she could see why perhaps she should have approached loudly instead.

The torches went suddenly dark. Sefa turned for just a moment, and then there was a knife bared at her throat with the silver-haired warrior behind it.

"It's me!" she gasped. "It's Sefa!"

He stalked a slow circle to face her, eyes narrowed and shoulders ready for battle. Only when he saw her face did he lower the knife.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," Sefa breathed.

"Fear is in here." The man tapped his temple. "No one can make you feel fear. Do you understand?"

Sefa nodded.

"You have something to tell me?"

She nodded, swallowing the guilt she wasn't supposed to be feeling. "Yes. Arthur has set out for Ismere."

"As I expected."

"But he's approaching from the west, through Annis' land."

The man paused. "You're sure?"

"Certain."

"When did he leave?"

"Yesterday at dawn."

The man was already turning, walking to a stone altar strewn with his sword and belongings.

"Shall I come with you?" Sefa asked hopefully.

"Your disappearance will create suspicion."

"What would you like me to do?"

He gathered his things under his arm and strode past her. "You've served your purpose, for now."

Sefa swallowed down something painful. The man seemed to realize what he'd said, stopping with a barely-audible sigh and turning back to face her.

"I hope they haven't ill-treated you," he said.

Sefa shook her head. "They've been good to me, father."

"They are Pendragons. They are good for one thing only: death."

With that, her father swept out of the ruins to find his horse, leaving Sefa alone to blink back tears and try––and fail––to suppress her mounting dread.

* * *

For the first time in his life, Arthur got to see Merlin be the first one horsed and ready to leave. Distress seemed to make him bizarrely efficient; Arthur made a mental note to ask about it when they returned home.

For now, though, there was Annis to bid farewell to.

"Morgana has been devoured by hate," the queen said, walking the Pendragon to the courtyard. "Be careful."

"I will."

"Good allies are hard to find. I'd hate to lose one."

Arthur nodded and mounted his horse. Merlin settled at his right, and the others fanned out behind them both; with the new information, there was no time to lose.

The weather was fair and treated them well, although the bitter wind of autumn was already becoming laced with winter. Arthur could feel the anticipation rising from all his men for what was ahead, all save for Merlin, who continued to hold his damnable silence. The brief respite Annis had given them hadn't had any effect.

 _I don't think we should go to Ismere._ The memory of Merlin's expression caught in Arthur's mind like a burr.

When they made camp that night, Merlin spoke to no one. They'd brought along more than one servant to care for so many knights, so the responsibility of feeding and washing up after everyone no longer fell on the shoulders of the king's personal manservant. Merlin was left to tend to Arthur and Arthur alone, and he did that in the same way he'd been doing everything else: quickly, efficiently and with no mind to engage in conversation. To a knight, a servant might as well have been invisible; the men barely glanced at Merlin, much preferring each others' company. When Merlin moved through them, he could as well have been the wind.

To all except Arthur.

Like a planet pulled from proper orbit, Merlin circled away from the warmth of the fire and crouched alone next to the brook they'd camped by. Arthur cut himself from the conversation with Leon and Elyan, who barely skipped a beat at his absence. The king picked his way through the cluster of men, out of the firelight and into the night until he could speak without being overheard.

"Merlin."

Merlin glanced back at him, still consumed by that strikingly heavy seriousness. Arthur sat down next to him.

"How can they laugh and joke?" Merlin asked.

"Hmm?"

"Don't they know what we will face in Ismere?"

Something was wrong, and it was something more than fear. "Yeah, of course. But a warrior learns to enjoy each day as it comes––"

"––Because he knows it might be his last," Merlin finished, looking down.

Arthur watched, trying to identify the lines of worry etched into the man's posture. "Why are you so upset?"

Merlin hesitated. "Morgana is powerful. She's… dangerous."

"I know."

"And you don't care." There it was again, that something that was more than fear. Selfless fear, the sort that Arthur knew all too well. The selfless fear that had demanded he undertake this mission in the first place.

"Only about my men," he said, trying to make Merlin understand. "We're more than friends. More than brothers. No matter what lies ahead of me, I won't abandon them, as I know they would not abandon me."

Merlin looked up again. For a moment, there was no fear for the future; Merlin really looked at him, almost as if… he was trying to memorize him. Not his words, not the moment around them, but trying to memorize Arthur himself.

And then Merlin looked away again and the heaviness was back.

"I understand," he murmured. A breath of a chuckle. "I wish I didn't. But I do."

He looked back and the fear was gone. In its place was pain, but even that disappeared as he began to memorize Arthur again. The king smiled, forced to be happy with the thought that his words had gotten through, and shoved Merlin's arm.

"Come have some food."

For once, Merlin actually did as he was told. The two of them joined Elyan and Leon, and Merlin even made an effort to add to their story when the conversation turned to the Lamia incident. Jokes and teasing, mostly, but enough for Arthur to hope that Merlin wasn't as entirely hopeless as he looked.

The following morning, Merlin seemed better. Marginally. He was still quiet and quick to avoid attention, but managed to insult Arthur's laziness when the king shoved him to get the horses ready. No smile yet, but it was a start.

Many of the knights were from common stock, and therefore knew how to care for themselves and be useful around the camp. Nearly everything was ready to go just after sunrise, save for a few stragglers still tacking up their horses. Arthur was pleased and prepared for them to make good time, until a deathly silence dropped over them all.

Out of the morning mist, shadows were forming.

Every knight drew their sword in the blink of an eye, putting their backs to each other and facing the fog.

"We're surrounded," Merlin called out, coming to Arthur's side and staying there.

"We can't stay here," Leon said.

The shadows sharpened into men, armed and armored, and then Arthur saw her. On horseback, Morgana's silhouette was familiar and cutting; every time he thought he'd be used to seeing her, he was proven wrong. She looked at him coolly, calm in her control, and all hope of victory fled.

"Run!" Arthur shouted.

The knights ran, and Morgana's men gave chase. Arthur took count of his men as he moved, remembering names and locations and scraping together as quick a plan as he could manage.

But then men appeared up ahead of them, and there was nowhere left to go.

With their enemies closing in from all sides, the thin forest turned into a madhouse of confusion. There was no semblance of formation or strategy from either side; every man paired off into a duel and tried his best not to hit his own comrades.

Arthur faced off against one opponent, then another, looking desperately for a space to get his bearings. He heard Sir Leon scream in pain, and by instinct moved to help; Leon was locked in battle with a silver-haired warrior clad in black, and was already injured. Arthur charged straight through everything between them, already taking note of the warrior's expert stance and skill; battlefield instincts put the pieces together, and Arthur knew within seconds that it was a battle Leon could not win.

The silver-and-black warrior ducked at the perfect moment, slipping expertly under Arthur's strike and coming back up to meet him. He moved like a ghost, but his recovery was too confident––when he raised up for what would have been a staggering blow, he left himself open for Arthur to disarm and punch to the ground. In the same heartbeat, another opponent was leaping into the fray, forcing Arthur to turn and give way. He killed the man with one well-aimed slash, but by then it was too late; Arthur saw a flash of silver hair, the glitter of a mace in the morning light, and then there was an explosion of pain between his shoulders.

After that, darkness.

* * *

Sorry for retreading the ground of the TV show, but it was either 1) transcribe the episode, or 2) expect the readers to have memorized everything that happened in the episode, which didn't seem very fair. Tried to make it the least boring I possibly could, though.

As always, thanks to Wryter501 for doing an amazing job beta-ing, and thanks to you all for so much positivity!


	7. Distrust

A piercing pain between his shoulders yanked Merlin's attention up the battlefield. In an instant his eyes landed on Arthur, who was collapsing under the blow of the silver-haired warrior. Merlin ended his current opponent with a spear to the ribs and dashed to Arthur's side, fully ready to defend his king by magic, but Elyan and Leon were already stepping in to give him space. While they occupied the dark warrior, Merlin shouldered his way under Arthur's weight and lifted him like a rag doll. Honor and glory be damned; there was too much going on, too much shouting and clanging and it sounded like the Vartis' cave, like his vision of fire and battle and inability to save Arthur's life. He dragged the unconscious king through the fight, away from the silver haired warrior and towards the safety of the trees; any Saxons that dared challenge them were shattered against the rocks by a blast of magic, and it didn't matter who could see him––Arthur's life was in danger, and nothing else mattered. Every face he passed, he looked in terror for the blue eyes and curly black hair from the Vartis' vision to match the sounds of the battle around them.

Merlin found them shelter where the ground dropped sharply, setting Arthur against a tree. There was a horseman following them from the battlefield; settling into a protective crouch, Merlin narrowed his eyes and sensed a life in the bushes nearby.

 **"Stige thu wyrm,"** he hissed.

The snake in the bushes obeyed him instantly, slithering into the horseman's path and sending the horse rearing in fright.

Merlin got back under Arthur's shoulder and pulled onward before the horseman could regain the saddle. He ducked, zig-zagged, cut through underbrush and brought branches down behind them to cover their tracks––every trick he had learned over the years of saving Arthur's neck, he used.

Even when the sounds of the battle faded, he continued to move.

It was sometime around noon that Merlin finally came to rest in a shallow gully, which shielded them from outside eyes and funneled the sounds of the forest into easy hearing. If they were set upon, they would at least have a chance of hearing it first.

Only then did Merlin allow himself even a hint of relief. The battle was gone. Arthur's bane was nowhere to be seen. They were alone. And above all, Arthur was alive.

The damage to the king's back was deep, but nothing Merlin hadn't seen before. He set a healing enchantment over it and lay Arthur to rest on a bed of moss, summoning a fire to keep them both warm. As Arthur healed, Merlin listened to what was around them, half-expecting the fires of his vision to spring out of the earth and bodies to materialize around them.

When Arthur finally moaned in pain, though, all of Merlin's attention snapped back to his friend.

"What happened?" Arthur groaned, looking around blearily and grabbing his head.

"You don't remember?"

Arthur shook his head. "Where are the others? Leon? Elyan?"

"There was nothing I could do. I had to get you to safety."

Arthur managed a chuckle. "What actually happened?"

No, Merlin was not dealing with this right now. "The usual," he snapped. "I saved your neck."

 _"You_ saved me?"

"Yes. And I can juggle. I keep telling you, I have many talents." The sorcerer reached out an annoyed hand to pull Arthur to his feet. He didn't expect Arthur to look so… surprised.

"So it would seem," the Pendragon said. Was he actually believing him? Wonders never ceased.

"Come on," Merlin said, annoyance disappearing against his will.

They had a long journey ahead without horses or equipment, but it was remarkable how seeing Arthur in danger did wonders to clear Merlin's head. Thoughts and terrors of the future disappeared under the danger of the present, which was in itself something Merlin could handle with ease. First and foremost, he kept an ear out for approaching hoofbeats, but they'd made it far enough away from the battle that it didn't seem like anyone would be coming after them––not now nor soon.

After that, though, there were the smaller, more mundane concerns like hunger and shelter. Merlin hadn't eaten since the previous night's dinner, which was probably a large factor in his general grumpiness; Arthur was only lazy when they were in Camelot and he had petty things to boss Merlin about, so right now he naturally decided to keep them at a pace that even a mule would be exhausted by.

"Can we have a break?" Merlin asked at what was probably around four o'clock in the afternoon.

"As long as it's quick and we reach Ismere before dark."

He couldn't be serious. "Ismere? We are heading back to Camelot!"

"Navigation is not your strong point, is it? Camelot is south, sunrise is where?"

"In the east!"

"And where have we been walking towards all day?"

"To our deaths! The two of us against Morgana? Are you mad?"

"I told you, I'm going to rescue my men."

Merlin grabbed Arthur's arm. "No!"

Arthur paused and turned, face softening. "If you're afraid," he said, "then go." There was no judgement in his gaze, only understanding.

"I'm worried about you," Merlin tried to explain.

Arthur sighed. "Right. Well, I've tried sending you home, but if you're not going to do as you're told then the least you could do is shut up."

With that, the king turned and began walking again. Merlin stared after him disbelievingly, trying to imagine how exactly Arthur had managed to survive the twenty years before he'd met him.

"Come on," Arthur called, jerking his head for Merlin to follow.

Merlin ground his teeth. "You know, if Morgana doesn't kill you, I will."

"Threatening a king is treason, Merlin."

"What about threatening an ass?"

"Heard that."

 _That's why I said it,_ Merlin didn't snap, preferring to stew in his own angry silence.

The rest of the day was a long, boring eternity of walking, being annoyed at Arthur and mentally preparing for that same Arthur to walk headlong into danger. Again. Like he somehow knew that it would be Merlin doing all the heavy work.

Arthur himself was annoyingly cheerful about it all––although compared to Merlin's now-constant worrying, anything would be cheerful. Arthur might have just been less terrified about it than Merlin, but that was annoying, too, because it seemed only right that the person determined to leap into the snake pit stop being so casual about it.

Night descended and forced them to stop, and all that annoyance was forced to cool into real, distilled fear. The vision of the Vatis continued to flash through Merlin's head, until he had to glance at Arthur every few moments just to remind himself that he was still alive. Even lying back to back beneath the protective roots of a tree with Arthur's steady breathing to prove that he was alright, Merlin couldn't escape the feeling of watching him die.

"Arthur?"

"Hmm?"

"Need to tell you something. The man. The old man, in the village––"

"Jus' think of something else, Merlin."

"I need you to listen to me. Before he died, he tried to warn me. He told me you were in danger and that the danger was close."

"He's dying, Merlin. Who knows what he was saying?"

"I think that he was a Druid seer."

"'Spect me to listen to a sorcerer?"

"Why would he tell me that? He had no knowledge that I even knew you." Merlin propped himself on one elbow, trying to catch Arthur's eyes and make him listen. "We have to turn back." _Please._

"I can't." Immediate, unyielding. "Even if what he said were true, it makes no difference."

Merlin found it increasingly difficult to breath. "Arthur, without you Camelot is nothing––everything we've worked so hard to create, everything will be gone."

Arthur turned, his gaze even harder than Merlin's. "Look, no matter what adversity we face, we stand for what is right. We betray our beliefs, that will destroy everything we strive for. I swear I'm going to rescue my men, or die trying."

When had Arthur become the idealist, and Merlin the cynic? The warlock could hear how his own words sounded, but it was the steel in Arthur's eyes that made him stop. Arthur would not yield, and Merlin knew that as deeply as he knew the sky was blue or that fire burned. The reason he stayed in Camelot, it wasn't destiny or duty––it was Arthur. This Arthur. The Arthur who never gave up.

The Arthur who would sacrifice himself for his people without a second thought.

"Then I swear," Merlin said, "I will protect you or die at your side."

It was only when Merlin saw the relief on Arthur's face that he realized there had been any doubt. Arthur smiled, clapping the warlock on the shoulder with a nod, then rolled over to go to sleep. Merlin settled down at his back, trying his best to focus on the feel of Arthur breathing rather than the feel of Arthur dying.

That night, he dreamed of fire and he dreamed of battle, and he dreamed of cold blue eyes and curly black-brown hair.

Merlin awoke to the sound of hoofbeats. Before he'd even gathered his surroundings, Arthur's hand was over his mouth; there were hooves and feet on the ground above them, where a massive group of men and horses were stopping just shy of the overhang where they had taken shelter.

And once he was awake, Merlin could feel her––the air rippled with Morgana's power, ready and waiting for a reason to lash out. Merlin's own power was responding in an instant, coiling up and making ready to meet her.

The Saxon company was walking along the edge of the overhang, pausing briefly as more than one man tried to steal a few moments' rest.

"Don't just stand there; find them!" Morgana snapped. "I don't care how long it takes." She clicked her tongue at her horse, and then Merlin could feel her moving on until the air became empty and still once more. Her men followed.

At long last, the two travelers were left alone again. Arthur removed his hand from Merlin's mouth, and they slipped away in the opposite direction. Minutes passed, then hours; it was late morning before Arthur was comfortable enough to break their cautious silence.

"If only we had a horse," he said idly after tripping over a root.

"Or a pig."

"You can't ride a pig."

"No, but we could roast it." The thought began to grow, until Merlin's imagination was running away from him. "Carrots, parsnips and apples––"

"Merlin––"

"No, you're right, we won't waste those apples, we'll put them in a pie––"

"Stop it."

"We have to eat something."

Merlin didn't usually put stock in the magic of wishes, but at that exact moment, he was proven wrong. He was very sure that he hadn't used magic, but his wish nevertheless appeared some yards in front of them as if someone had heard him and decided to help.

"Rabbits?" Merlin asked in wonder, walking forward to where two fresh, perfectly intact dead hares lay on the ground. Perhaps there was a hunter nearby? Merlin stooped to pick them up. If the hunter got angry at the theft, Arthur could pay for them.

"Merlin!" Arthur shouted, tackling Merlin from behind.

The ground was suddenly made of ropes. A net sprang into existence from below, yanking the two of them off the ground and trapping them into a cramped, uncomfortable prison.

But trapped or not, there was no way in hell that Merlin was letting go of those rabbits. "I got them."

He didn't need to see Arthur's face to know that there would be pain coming his way the instant they got down.

* * *

The council room was boiling. News had spread quickly of the betrayal, and more than one person was whispering behind their hands about execution. Guinevere stood in front of her throne, straight-backed and tense; her mind was whirling and she couldn't even think of sitting down.

Within arm's reach stood her brother, accompanied by Sir Leon and a few of the returned patrolmen. Word of the ambush, as well as the disappearance of the king, was circulating throughout the room. It was only the queen and highest knights that held additional, silent worries for the manservant that had disappeared as well.

The doors of the throne room burst open and Sefa was dragged in, red-eyed and tear-streaked. Harsh murmurs followed her as she was brought before the queen and thrown to the floor.

"What have I done?" Sefa whimpered.

Gwen didn't waste time. "The night before Arthur set out for Ismere, there was a meeting of the king's privy council. Did you hear what was said?"

"N-no, my lady."

"And yet you were standing right outside the door."

"I was bringing your supper."

"Later that night, where did you go?"

"Nowhere."

"Don't make this hard on yourself. All I want is the truth. We both know you left the city through the southern gate."

Sefa looked away.

"Look at me," Gwen commanded. "Do you deny it?"

"No, my lady."

"Who did you see?" The queen stepped gently closer. "You can tell me."

"You wouldn't understand."

Done with gentleness, Guinevere drew herself up and shouted. _"Who did you see?"_

"My father––I saw my father!"

"And you told him what you'd heard?"

"He only wants what's rightfully his. Were he a physician or a warrior, his skills would be revered, but sorcery? He deserves respect like any man––"

"Respect is to be earned; it cannot be bought with blood. Your treachery cost the lives of many good men!"

"I-I didn't mean to––"

"You've admitted your guilt. You leave me no choice, Sefa. By the laws of Camelot I find you guilty of treason."

Sefa looked up in terror. "No…"

"I sentence you to death."

Those that did not know the queen personally nodded in approval. Those that did know her personally exchanged startled looks. Sefa was shaking her head desperately, but Gwen had made her decision.

"Take her to the cells," the queen commanded.

* * *

It was well after nightfall before Merlin and Arthur managed to wriggle into a remotely useful position.

If I can reach my sword," Arthur mumbled through Merlin's arm, "we'll be able to cut the rope."

Merlin jerked in pain. "Augh, don't put your knee there!"

"Where?"

"THERE!"

A few yelps and shoves later, Arthur's sword tumbled straight through the net and clattered to the ground.

 _"Merlin!"_

"That was your fault! That was your fault!"

Arthur roared wordlessly and grabbed the ropes of the net, thrashing and yanking as if he thought that he could pull the thing down. Merlin just curled up exhaustedly and waited until it stopped and the king slumped back down in defeat.

"Right," Arthur panted. "Just great."

"... Where'd the other rabbit go?"

"Merlin, just… just shut up. Shut up about the goddamn rabbits."

If Merlin hadn't been so tired already, he would have kept talking. It was Arthur's stupid chivalry that had gotten them here in the first place, so he deserved to be just as annoyed as Merlin. But Merlin could do that in the morning; frustrated and beyond exhausted, the warlock consigned himself to discomfort and let himself nod off to sleep.

Not once did he dream of battle. He didn't dream of being torn in half, or of watching Arthur bleed out below. He didn't dream of pain or fear; he dreamed of rabbits and pigs over an open fire, dripping with fat and stuffed with vegetables. He dreamed of home and Gwen and Gaius, and of retrieving Gwaine from the tavern so he didn't drink himself into debt again. It was the best sleep he'd had in what felt like years.

But after a rude, sudden awakening the day before, it was only expected for Merlin to be awoken rudely and suddenly again when he was smashed against the ground with a fully-armored king smashing down on top of him. It was a strange thing to not know exactly where you were and take in the details of a net, a rabbit and several armed men circling about from scratch.

The only thing Merlin did remember immediately was that this was definitely somehow Arthur's fault.

"I'm sorry," snickered one of the men. "Did we wake ye?"

Arthur noticed his fallen sword and immediately launched for it––a single heartbeat too late after a ratty boot stomped down to hold it in place.

"Not so fast," said the man. He sheathed his dagger and picked the sword up, taking in the runes on the blade and the faint hum of perfection. "The king of Camelot. You will fetch a handsome price, alive… or dead." He turned the point of the blade towards Arthur's throat. "Any last requests?"

"Let my servant go," Arthur replied. "He doesn't deserve to die like this."

Damn it, not again. Merlin was lifted from the ground and shoved vaguely south, as if they actually expected him to leave.

"If you're going to kill him," Merlin said, "you'll have to kill me first."

"Merlin," Arthur said as the sword changed targets. "Step aside." _Don't start this again._

"You know I never do as I'm told." _So stop pretending you're going to win this argument and stay there._

Merlin readied his magic. The man came forward, sword raised, and Arthur struggled to get off the ground.

 _"Stop!"_

Everything paused.

A stranger stood at the edge of the trees, a pair of rabbits in hand. Though none of the men leaped to attention as they would have with a leader, they were still prepared to listen to what the man had to say. He closed the distance, revealing youth and dark hair and pale eyes.

 _The man below looked young, but he moved with conviction and confidence. His armor––the armor of a knight of Camelot––was as close-fitting as a second skin, the sword in his hand comfortable and well-used. Merlin was seized by a cold and all-consuming terror that held him in place, even as he struggled to stop what he realized was going to happen below him._ Get away from him! _he tried to scream, but he was incapable of doing anything to stop what he was about to witness._

Merlin couldn't move. Fire, battle, Arthur––it was all there, locking him into place and he couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, he couldn't react but god no he couldn't be here it couldn't be him.

The stranger came to a stop an arm's-length in front of Merlin, cold and terrifying and so, so familiar. "Shouldn't we leave it to the Lady Morgana to decide their fate?"

The man with Arthur's sword let out a chuckle, rolling his eyes and turning away. It seemed to be a silent signal that the encounter was over; the others sheathed their weapons and started pulling ropes out of their clothing.

Mordred turned to Arthur and extended a hand. Merlin's magic roared into his fingertips. The fact that Arthur was there was the only reason that Merlin did not burn the stranger off the face of the earth right then and there, but by all the gods, if he so much as looked at his sword…

Arthur took the stranger's hand and got to his feet.

"You don't remember me, do you?" the stranger said softly.

Remember. Remember. Remember. Merlin knew him, he knew he did, he _had_ to. Those eyes…

"You saved my life once," he said. "Many years ago."

And then Merlin knew. His power abandoned him and his blood ran cold.

"Mordred," Merlin breathed in terror.

Mordred looked at him with a small, knowing smile that froze Merlin to the bones. Something shuddered in the air between them, like it had so many years ago; a thought, a feeling, a power, two minds meeting beyond their bodies in a way that Arthur could not hear.

 _Recognition._ It wasn't a consciously-formed thought on Mordred's part, but Merlin heard it nonetheless. Like a voice made rusty from years of disuse, the feeling was a struggle to make out; it was more a vague impression of emotion than any real attempt to communicate.

Mordred recognized, and Mordred remembered.

Then Mordred's eyes returned to the king. "Hello, Arthur."

Never before had Merlin wished so wholly for someone's death. Every bad decision that kept him up at night, every mistake that had come back to bite him, they were all pale shadows next to the one standing before him. He should have let him die when he was nine years old. It wasn't Kilgarrah's voice anymore, it was his own; he should have let Uther throw the boy to the pyre, because then he wouldn't be standing here, touching Arthur, grown and powerful and magical.

If he'd been dead ten years ago, Arthur's bane wouldn't be standing before him like a creature of nightmare.

Four more of the men returned, ropes in hand, and yanked Arthur and Merlin into bondage.

"Quit stalling them, boy," said the leader to Mordred. "Get them tied to the wagon and let's get moving."

* * *

 _When dreaming of darkness, there was no way out. There was only completeness and powerlessness, crushing down and oppressing and owning heart and soul. Trapped, bound, pressed against the cold stone of the wall by the ever-growing weight of the only other creature in the cell. There was a heat to be found there, for both of them, which was the only way they survived the cold winters at the bottom of their prison._

 _The darkness enfolded, and the darkness consumed._

 _When the door above them was finally rolled back and they were exposed to the sun once more, one cringed away and one stretched skyward. Leathery skin that was supposed to be scales scraped against the stone, stretched tight across starving bones and a hollow face. Below, dark and brittle hair shielded a gaunt and starving face. Below, the one who cowered covered her face with an arm to remain in darkness. Above, the one who reached for the heavens rattled her wings, opened her mouth and roared._

Morgana jolted awake, gasping for air as the dream shattered. Cold stone turned to cold linens, soft and forgiving; the air around her was open and free, and there were no chains freezing her wrists.

"Aithusa?" she called out, struggling to control her trembling.

Aithusa chirruped from her own bed by the fireplace, rising and limping over. Morgana reached out a hand for the dragon to follow.

"Come here."

Aithusa sniffed uncertainly at the offered hand, but allowed Morgana to stroke her head.

"Don't worry," Morgana reassured them both. "We're safe. No harm can come to us now. Our troubles are all in the past, I promise."

Aithusa sat down and lay her head tiredly on Morgana's bed.

"Soon we will have the Diamaire," Morgana whispered. "Soon we will know Arthur's bane. Camelot will be ours."

* * *

Emrys was watching him. His gaze burrowed into Mordred's back uncomfortably, unwavering and rippling with held-back thoughts. The fact that Mordred's own powers were responding without his consent made Mordred uneasy––it had been years since he'd even allowed his mind to be open––but he couldn't help it now that the two of them were so close. Emrys' sheer power radiated from him like heat off a bonfire, and while Mordred had long ago been careful to forget what others' magic felt like, it was impossible to ignore this one.

Emrys scorched.

The gaze on Mordred's back was made of embers clawing under his skin. Every time he glanced back, Emrys was fixed on him like a hound on a rabbit. Mordred tried his utmost to keep his mind to himself, but this was Emrys; Emrys' very being echoed with each step, and Mordred had been born sensitive to magic. He could do his best to block out the thoughts, but he couldn't ignore the thick waves of _distrust_ and _fear_ echoing through the air between them.

The feelings disappointed Mordred, but he supposed it was understandable. He was walking alongside slavers, after all.

Mordred could hear Emrys and Arthur arguing behind him, although it sounded more like Arthur was arguing at Emrys rather than with him; the sorcerer of the two responded quickly and quietly, his eyes never wavering from Mordred. When Ragnor called for the caravan to halt, Mordred's couldn't stop his knee-jerk thoughts of _alarm_ from spilling back to the other sorcerer. Emrys made a point of ignoring them.

Ragnor dismounted and doubled back, making straight for the two newest slaves, but Emrys was still talking frantically––until Ragnor lodged his fist in Arthur's stomach and sent the Pendragon doubling over.

"Ye speak when ye're spoken to," Ragnor snarled. And since he enjoyed punishing as many people as possible, he turned to the cart driver. "Faster!"

Ragnor returned to his horse and the caravan began to move again. The slaves were yanked viciously behind as the horses were urged to a trot, and while Mordred and the others had the benefit of warm clothes and unshackled hands, their captives were forced to endure with whatever they had on them––never mind that it was close to freezing and the poor Pendragon was wearing chainmail. The fact that Arthur had been caught up in their journey gave Mordred no small measure of guilt; there were two living people in the world that had shown Mordred unconditional kindness, and Arthur was one of them. A man like him didn't belong in chains.

Of all the prisoners, however, Arthur and Emrys both held up remarkably well. When the caravan finally stopped for the night, Emrys was radiating _weariness,_ but not to a dangerous degree. Arthur settled down to sleep easily, and Mordred could feel the glowing tendrils of Emrys' magic reach out silently and settle over the king like a blanket, no doubt meant to ward off the cold and keep hypothermia from getting its claws in. Already half-asleep, Arthur was none the wiser, or perhaps he was just too used to it to question how easily he slept on the snow while the rest of the slaves huddled together desperately. Mordred felt somewhat comforted by the sight; while he and Emrys had a checkered history of their own, Arthur had never shown Mordred anything but kindness and mercy. And considering the string of people that had impacted Mordred's life, kindness and mercy were things he could never and would never forget.

But for Emrys himself, there was no sleep. While the other captives settled onto the ground, the sorcerer remained sitting guard by his king. Not once did his eyes stray from Mordred.

 _Suspicion. Nervousness. Readiness to fight._ The emotions shivered in the air between them, too loud and powerful for even Emrys to suppress. Ragnor noticed the staring, but did not understand.

"What're ye gawping at?" the slaver asked, pointing Arthur's sword at Emrys. The weapon was dead and silent in his hands, but Mordred could hear the barely-audible thrum of its power, waiting only to return to Arthur's hand to roar back to life.

Ragnor jerked the sword threateningly, and Mordred tensed on Emrys' behalf; the mistrust between them was disheartening, but Emrys was still kin and Mordred didn't want to see him taunted.

Ragnor speared a loaf of bread on the tip of the sword.

"Is this what you want?" he asked, grinning.

Emrys said nothing. Ragnor yanked the bread off the sword.

"Catch!" he said, tossing the bread a few yards out of Emrys' reach and laughing.

Briefly, Emrys' eyes moved to Ragnor and narrowed, but he still remained silent; to one such as Emrys, Ragnor was little more than a fly making noise. Then he glanced down at the bread, and his feelings for Mordred quieted; there was suddenly a powerful _hunger_ coming off him, so strong that Mordred could hear it even while his own stomach was full.

"Maybe we should feed them," Mordred said quietly.

Ragnor snorted. "What for?

"They'll be skin and bones."

"Morgana wants slaves, not hogs for the fire."

Old, familiar righteousness bloomed in Mordred's chest, but he forced it down; seven years and 'doing the right thing' had never gotten him anything but trouble.

Mordred looked up at Ragnar. "Then slow the pace."

Ragnar seemed to sense that pointing the sword at Emrys made Mordred uncomfortable, so he did it again. "The quicker we get there," he said, "the quicker I get my money."

There was nothing else to be said. Mordred knew better than to press his luck by saying anything else.

Sleep did not come easily to him that night. While the slaves and the slavers both nodded off as easily as the weather would allow, the two sorcerers remained awake. For Emrys it seemed a conscious decision; while the king slept comfortably on his bed of snow, warmed and protected by the magic of his other half, Emrys remained upright and motionless.

For Mordred, the inability to sleep had much more to do with Emrys' unwavering stare than any personal choice. It crawled over his back and burnt holes in his skin, and no matter what he did he couldn't just pretend it wasn't there. He tossed. He turned. He looked at everything but Emrys. He tried desperately to close his mind and silence his own natural desire to use magic––a desire he'd suppressed well enough until now. Sometimes he managed to sink into an imitation of sleep, but it never lasted long; every once in awhile a small sensation of _hunger_ or _nervousness_ or _determination_ would bleed over from Emrys and wake him up.

When the eastern horizon turned gray, Mordred couldn't endure it anymore.

The pre-dawn hours were silent, both for the slaves and the slavers. The cold made sleep feel sweeter, so Mordred knew that there would be time before Ragnor woke and got them moving again. More then enough time to palm two loaves of bread and slip them under his coat.

On the outside, Emrys was as calm as ever when Mordred approached him––but the invisible clench of his magic did not go unnoticed by the younger sorcerer. _Hunger_ and _fear_ switched immediately to _defensiveness,_ but Mordred would not let himself be cowed. He wanted… no, he needed Emrys to understand that all of this––thugs, travel, circumstance––it wasn't what it looked like. Mordred was many things, but he was no slaver; he was here because it was where he'd ended up, not because he'd chosen it. Ragnor was a means to an end, and those with magic rarely had many options. Emrys had to understand that better than anyone.

And even if he didn't, Mordred couldn't stand the thought of Arthur suffering, especially at the hands of those Mordred was (reluctantly) calling companions.

Pushing his way through the _defensiveness,_ Mordred knelt in front of Emrys and brought the bread out of his coat. It would be pointless to offer Arthur anything if Emrys didn't approve it first.

"Do you want them?" Mordred asked, holding out the two loaves.

"Why are you doing this?" Emrys asked immediately. _Distrust._

Mordred glanced at Arthur. "He saved my life once. I owe him a debt." Then, back to Emrys, "Don't be so quick to judge me."

For a single moment, the _distrust_ lessened, perhaps in guilt, perhaps in surprise that Mordred had even noticed. But it was only a moment, and then it returned like a cold flame to push against Mordred and hover protectively over Arthur. Mordred gritted his teeth, overcome with a conflicting mix of emotions: confusion, guilt, shame at Emrys of all people seeing what his life had come to.

"You fear me, Emrys, don't you?"

Mordred had never felt someone lock up so quickly. Emrys recoiled as if he'd been dealt a physical blow by the sound of his Druid name, and for a single, precious moment, his gaze broke from Mordred and snapped towards Arthur. Distrust disappeared under waves of rolling, crushing _terror,_ and Mordred had to take a moment to become centered again.

He'd forgotten that Arthur didn't know, and for that he cursed himself; Arthur and Emrys were so tightly bound together, it was all too easy to assume that there were no barriers between them. In that moment, it wasn't the all-powerful man of legend and myth that Mordred spoke to, it was another sorcerer, one of his own kind, carrying the same burdens and facing the same risk. Mordred dipped his head; he'd just risked another sorcerer's exposure, and for that there was no excuse.

"I'm sorry," the younger magician said. "I know the hatred and suspicion with which men treat those with magic." Yes, he knew and had lived it all too well, and hadn't meant to put the other man in danger. "You and I are not so different; I too have learned to hide my gifts."

With a silent sigh, Mordred put the bread on the ground by Emrys' feet.

"I promise," he said earnestly. "Your secret is safe with me." Sorcerers had to protect their own, no matter what might lie between them.

Mordred stood and turned to leave, hoping his gesture would at least prove that he meant no harm. He couldn't free them, but he could at least see that they didn't starve.

"What's Morgana looking for in Ismere?" Emrys asked suddenly.

Mordred stopped and looked back over his shoulder. He struggled briefly over whether or not to answer; rumors of Ismere weren't exactly a secret to those with Druidic knowledge, but there was still that question of loyalty. In Lot's kingdom, rumors of Morgana were fragmented and warped; all Mordred knew for certain was that she was in Ismere, and that she had pitted herself against Camelot. No doubt that meant that she pitted herself against Emrys, but how conscious she was of that fact remained unknown. But surely if they both had magic, there was at least some common, peaceful ground to be found between them? Memories of Morgana's warmth and smile came to his mind, whispering quietly that Morgana and Emrys were surely enemies and that it would be some sort of betrayal to give up the information, especially to someone who clearly had so little faith in him anyway.

But again, this was Emrys. There had once been a time when Mordred had sought Emrys' warmth and approval as fiercely as he sought Morgana's.

"The Diamaire," Mordred finally replied.

"What's that?"

"In the language of my people, it means 'the key.'"

"The key to what?"

"The key to all knowledge."

Emrys frowned, not at Mordred, but at the information. The younger could see the wheels turning behind the older's eyes, no doubt putting together pieces of knowledge that Mordred couldn't hope to understand. Knowledge sat on Emrys' shoulders like a physical weight, heavy and unyielding and proof of who and what he was.

When at last Emrys reached for the bread at his feet, Mordred sent a small, hopeful smile his way. Their eyes met, and he knew that his gesture had been recognized––even if it hadn't been believed.

If they couldn't have trust, perhaps they could have peace at the very least.

* * *

Morgana threw open the heavy black doors with a blast of magic, striding purposefully into Ismere's throne room––a frigid, crumbling place that was barely worthy of the title. Ruadan stood against one wall, staring at the floor pensively. He'd recovered from his run-in with the Camelot patrol, but his stance was one of pain––it just wasn't physical pain.

"There is still no sign of the Diamaire," Morgana growled. "We're running out of time."

Ruadan sighed. "Have faith, Morgana."

"Arthur could be on us in days." The priestess stormed towards the throne and then turned back, walked a stretch, then turned back again.

"Or he could be dead."

Morgana didn't even blink. "No, he escaped. I'm sure of it."

Was Morgana never calm? "Then he'll be in Camelot by now."

"Then you must speak to your spy and find out what Arthur intends to do next!"

"My lady."

The heaviness in Ruadan's voice was apparent, even to Morgana. She stopped her pacing and turned, sensing that something was wrong.

"Sefa has been arrested," Ruadan said. "... She is sentenced to die."

Morgana seemed at a loss to respond, but for once, she realized that not everything was about her. After a few moments of silence, she managed to gather up what little sympathy she was capable of.

"That is cruel indeed," Morgana said, walking slowly forward. "But you must remember there is no greater glory than giving your life for a cause that is right." It wasn't much in way comfort, but Ruadan guessed that it was the closest thing Morgana could manage.

"She has proven herself to be a worthy daughter," Ruadan murmured, more to himself than Morgana.

"It will not be forgotten." Then, as if it would somehow help: "I will double the patrols on the border. We will be ready for when Arthur returns."

Ruadan nodded, wondering vaguely if Morgana could even come close to understanding what he felt. For all her talk of justice and 'rightness', Morgana was a creature made entirely of hate.

"There is nothing more you can do for Sefa," the priestess said coldly, walking away. "We must make sure her sacrifice is not in vain."

* * *

Thanks so much to my wonderful beta Wryter501 for continuing to put up with my weird streams of consciousness. Don't know how you do it.

And thanks to all my readers for so much positivity! It's good to know so many people are enjoying this! There was some more retreading of old ground, but the next chapter should have some more canon divergence/canon thickening, particularly once the group reaches Ismere, but I hope this one wasn't too boring for you all. Happy New Year!


	8. Reunite

Noon in winter did few favors to anyone; the road to Ismere was cold at night, during the day and any combination of the two. The slaves trudged as swiftly as they were able––which wasn't that swift at all––to keep up with the yanking of their shackles and avoid Ragnor's attention.

Merlin's magic had worked well, and Arthur remained strong. The bread they'd been given hadn't made up for days spent without a real meal, but it dulled the pain.

Mordred walked ahead, just as silent and terrifying as he'd been yesterday, ignored by the other slavers and only glancing back once or twice to catch Merlin's stare. Try as they might, the two sorcerers seemed incapable of ignoring the half-formed thoughts that echoed between them. Merlin had tried suppressing his own side of things once he'd realized Mordred could sense them, but that had proven useless during their conversation. As for Mordred's side of things… Merlin could feel _caution, confusion_ and, oddly, _guilt_ and _hope._

Merlin almost wished that there was hate or treachery. At least those would have been easy to understand. There had to be some sort of catch to it all, some hidden riddle that would proved Mordred to be the empty-eyed creature from the Vatis' vision.

But riddles and visions could wait for now; Arthur had a plan. At least, Merlin thought he had a plan. The king made some odd gestures as they woke up, and throughout the morning made more. Pointing motions, chopping motions, strange running motions with his fingers––the slavers didn't like them talking, so it was the only way to communicate. Merlin had absolutely no idea what Arthur was trying to tell him, but he chose to be optimistic and assumed there was a plan in mind.

Sometime around noon, Arthur nudged Merlin and fluttered his fingers around a bit. Merlin nodded, trying to look like he knew what that meant, and Arthur looked back to the slavers walking ahead.

And then Arthur collapsed on the ground.

"Wait, stop!" Merlin shouted to the driver, swooping down worriedly.

Arthur opened one eye for a moment, and a quick examination revealed that he was entirely fine. Arthur glanced suggestively at the halting slavers, and Merlin finally caught on.

"He needs water!" Merlin shouted.

Ragnor slid off his horse and stomped back to them, scowling. He halted before Merlin and glanced down at the king.

"Get up," the slavetrader snarled, kicking Arthur in the ribs.

It took all of Merlin's self-control not to incinerate Ragnor on the spot. The grizzled slaver laced a fist in Arthur's collar and dragged him to his feet.

"Not so much of the great warrior now, are you?" he snarled.

Arthur made a show of swaying. Merlin moved closer.

"Here," he said. "I'll help him."

Ragnor shoved Arthur toward Merlin with a laugh and made his way back to his horse. Merlin caught the king smoothly, making sure he was alright. Arthur nodded up at him with a weary smile; in his hands was Ragnor's knife, cheap and rough but still sharp.

They had an escape.

Arthur settled back in line as the caravan began to move again. Whether by mercy or forgetfulness, Ragnor hadn't commanded them to speed up; the pace remained steady enough to keep their feet under them.

 _Emrys._

Merlin jumped to attention. Mordred wasn't looking at them, but he was slowing down; the other slavers were outpacing him, soon followed by the horse and the cart besides. He was slowing down to meet them.

Merlin's magic leapt to his fingertips. If Mordred sensed it, he did not react.

Arthur didn't need telepathy to notice Mordred falling into step beside them, although he knew better than to question out loud. Mordred didn't reach out to the king, nor even glance at anything except the road ahead.

 _Here,_ Mordred said to Merlin, holding out a wineskin.

 _What is that?_ Merlin demanded.

 _Water._

Merlin didn't have the chance to be wary; Arthur reached right past him and took the offering with a nod of thanks. Mordred glanced back to give the king a small smile, and the sight of it made Merlin shiver.

The young Druid pulled ahead again, leaving the waterskin to the two prisoners. Arthur drank his fill and handed it off to Merlin, who couldn't bring himself to do the same; thoughts were whirling, too quickly and too tangled for him to care about thirst.

The sound of metal on rope was a sweet and grating sort of music; the king was wasting no time. His rope soon split with a dull snap, and he passed the knife to Merlin. The instant Merlin's rope was cut, Arthur jerked his head toward Ragnor riding at the head of the caravan.

"Get him back here," Arthur murmured.

Merlin nodded, stepped up to the wagon and yanked a barrel to the ground. The resulting crash was more than enough for Ragnor to spin his horse around and come cantering back to investigate, a deadly scowl on his face.

"Who did this?" the slaver demanded, dismounting and coming to stand in front of them. "Tell me!"

Arthur looked at Merlin. Merlin looked at Arthur. Arthur looked at Ragnor and nodded toward Merlin, because of course he would never take the blame for something clumsy.

"We need to rest," Merlin said evenly.

Ragnor drew his sword. "Then you can rest – forever!"

When Ragnor lunged, Arthur and Merlin fell into step.

Arthur struck Ragnor to the ground and sent the knife flying into the nearest slaver. Merlin turned and sent a tendril of magic lashing towards an incoming horseman, terrifying the animal into throwing its rider. An axe came flying, so Merlin pulled it out of the air and into his hand; he didn't much like axes, but better an axe than nothing at all.

The rest of the prisoners were rioting, inspired by the spectacle. Merlin swooped over the dead, looting what he could: water, dried food, cloth, anything that they could use. Arthur had managed to get ahold of a sword, and was covering Merlin's back with practiced ease; only when there was a break in the chaos did the king snatch a crossbow from the wagon, fall back to his servant's side and lead them both and into the open.

They broke free and ran, cutting through the snow and sprinting downhill. The ice and stone blended treacherously, making their path guesswork and chance. They skidded to a halt at the lip of a massive crack in the ice, very nearly falling straight into darkness and probably death. Merlin ground his teeth in frustration and looked behind them, mapping out loose rocks and snowpack that could be used against their pursuers.

Arthur bumped his shoulder for attention, then threw his new crossbow and quiver across the chasm.

Merlin's stomach dropped. "You've got to be joking."

"You have a better solution?" Arthur challenged, jogging back a few paces to give himself space.

Crunching snow drew Merlin's attention uphill, where one of the slavers was running to join them. Merlin turned back to shout at Arthur, but he didn't get the words out––Arthur was already sprinting towards the dark chasm. The king's feet left the ground, but Merlin felt like he was the one falling.

When Arthur landed on the other side, and Merlin nearly buckled from relief. _When we get out of this,_ he promised himself, _I swear I am locking that man in a padded room._

A second slaver was closing in on the first, and both were getting dangerously close.

"We haven't got all day, Merlin!"

Under normal circumstances, Merlin wouldn't have believed the most agile horse capable of jumping that distance, but damn everything, Arthur was on the other side and that meant he didn't have the luxury of disbelief.

So Merlin ran. He hefted the axe in one hand and the mismatched supplies in the other, and he jumped over that endless darkness and landed on the other side. He felt the crack of the ice deep in his bones, just barely keeping his footing. Arthur's hand was around his wrist in another instant, hauling him over the snow and into a trench that would shelter them from enemy arrows.

Merlin turned away immediately and readied his magic, planting himself behind Arthur's shoulder so he could see everything without revealing himself. Arthur already had an arrow in the crossbow by the time the first slaver reached the chasm, and a single shot was all it took to bring the man down. Merlin slammed a second arrow into the crossbow without having to be asked.

The second slaver passed his comrade without a moment's hesitation, following their tracks and leaping over the ice crevasse. Arthur put an arrow in the man's shoulder the moment his feet touched the snow, sending the slaver screaming into the darkness of the chasm.

Merlin tightened his grip on the stolen axe. "I'll make sure they can't get across."

"Merlin!"

Merlin broke from their cover and skidded to the small outcropping they had landed on––the narrowest point as far as could be seen in either direction. He focused everything on hacking at the ice, trusting Arthur to cover him.

A third slaver was making his way toward the chasm, but the king managed to shoot him down. The ice was barely giving way; if Merlin could just get Arthur's eyes off him for one second…

Something rippled in the air. Merlin froze for a split second and looked up to see a fourth dark figure sprinting towards them.

Mordred.

Arthur turned away for another arrow, his eyes leaving Merlin for a single second.

 **"Feall,"** Merlin commanded.

The axe came down with a crack of magic and sent the outcropping splintering into the darkness below.

On the other side, Mordred skidded to a halt on the lip of the edge. Merlin would have been relieved if not for the fact that Mordred was still alive. The warlock dashed back to Arthur, who had another arrow to the groove and was coiling up for a shot. The king leveled the weapon expertly, sighting the length of the arrow straight to Mordred's heart.

A cold, desperate hope flared to life in Merlin's chest. It could be over. Here, now, just like that, Arthur could unmake Merlin's mistake.

But then, somehow, Arthur and Mordred locked eyes.

The tension in Mordred's shoulders drained. He said nothing, did nothing; helpless at the point of Arthur's crossbow, Mordred did not beg, fight or run. He held Arthur's gaze and waited in silence for the arrow to fly.

Slowly, horrifyingly, Arthur lowered the crossbow.

Fire and battle danced behind Merlin's eyes.

Mordred inclined his head, turned, and walked away.

"Why did you spare his life?" Merlin demanded as Arthur began to unload the crossbow.

"He couldn't come after us."

"He was leading us to our deaths!"

"He showed us kindness."

"You should have killed him!"

"What is wrong with you?" Arthur snapped.

Merlin stopped short, biting back what he'd been about to say. "... You had the chance."

"We escaped, didn't we?"

Merlin was ready to hit something. "Next time we might not be so lucky."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I love your optimism." He got to his feet. "Come on. We need to keep moving."

Merlin wasn't given a choice; the king grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet. In another moment they were both running, away from the slavers and the crevasse and away from another mistake that was still breathing.

* * *

Camelot was no stranger to ghosts. Living and dead alike had both found chances to walk the halls, some noticed and others not. Those that remained peaceful went about their business in peace, and those that did not, well… there was a reason the other four kingdoms believed Camelot to be protected by something supernatural.

But Camelot's protector was gone tonight, and the ghost who walked the halls was flesh and blood. Years ago, perhaps he could have found his goal in peace and stolen his daughter away without a sound, but the years had turned him silver and his steps were growing heavy.

And the absent watchwarden of Camelot wasn't the only thing protecting it. In its years of protection, the city had learned how to take care of itself.

Gwen hadn't been fully asleep when the warning bells rang, and she roused herself quickly. There was no Sefa to rush in and help her, so she reached for the simplest, quickest dress she could find; when the guards knocked on her door, not an eye was batted at the simple peasant clothing.

Gwen breathed a sigh of relief when she was told of Sefa's disappearance. Ruadan's body had been brought to Gaius for examination, but no trace had been found of his daughter. For that Gwen was thankful. Despite everything, she still hoped that Sefa was safe.

Leon and Gaius were both waiting for her, with Elyan standing guard at the door.

"This is him?" Gwen said when she saw the body. "Ruadan?"

"This is him," Leon affirmed. "He is the one that freed the girl. We are tracking her as we speak."

"No," Gwen said. "Call off the search. Sefa has suffered enough."

Leon dipped his head without question. "Of course, my queen. I will see to it."

He left, and Gwen walked slowly around the table upon which Ruadan was laid. He was different than she had expected. He was older. Prouder. Somehow more more noble than she had imagined.

Gaius was still carrying out his examination, bent over the body with his magnifying glass. Gwen watched him work, uncomfortable with the conviction that remained on Ruadan's face even in death. She watched the physician halt at Ruadan's neck, blink twice, then fish a small necklace from the layers of clothing and armor.

"What is that?" Gwen asked.

It was a small container, one that soon revealed a tiny roll of paper.

"It appears to be a Druid prayer," Gaius said thoughtfully, squinting.

Ruadan was a Druid? Gwen frowned. "Can you read it?"

"I am no expert in the Druid runes."

"Please," Gwen said gently. "I know you too well."

With a sigh, Gaius dropped the facade of ignorance. "It is a call for victory over the enemies of the Old Religion."

Gwen looked down at Ruadan, trying to reconcile what she knew of the Druids with the man before her. "I thought that Druids were a peaceful people."

"For the most part, they are," the physician answered. "But for many… the Great Purge changed that. They blame Uther for their suffering."

 _As they should,_ Gwen thought before she could stop herself. "But Uther has long since been dead."

"Some believe that Arthur is no different from his father. Sorcery is still outlawed. For them, nothing has changed."

Gwen thought of a boy, a little boy she had met long ago who was almost executed for the crime of existing. She thought of the young Niniane that Arthur had exiled for healing her own little brother. She thought of a young Morgana, still soft and compassionate before Morgeuse' arrival.

For them, nothing has changed.

"Ruadan believed it was his sacred duty to fight my husband." Not a question, but a saddened statement. Gwen regretted Ruadan's death – not the lives that had doubtless been saved, but the reason it had been necessary.

"More than that. There are those who believe that Arthur is destined to die by a Druid's hand. Perhaps Ruadan thought he was that man."

"Who believes this?" Gwen asked, frown deepening. "Where is that written?"

"Prophecies are rarely written down, but––"

"It's a prophecy that says this?"

"No," Gaius backpedaled. "It is not quite that. It is… history. It is common for seers to pass their visions down through generations, which then become oral traditions, which then become beliefs."

"And you think there is one such ancient vision referred to Arthur? One stating that a Druid will kill him?"

"I wouldn't know," the physician stated hastily. "Visions are funny things. They are rarely straightforward, and may fulfill themselves in ways no one expected."

Gwen gave another glance to Ruadan. "He was prepared to fulfill this vision. And die for it."

"The Purge still runs deep for those with magic," Gaius said quietly. "They rage because they believe they are not free."

Equally quiet, and without looking him in the eye, Gwen answered, "One wrong cannot be righted by another wrong."

"Of course, my lady."

"But…" _But I know what his rage grew from,_ Gwen didn't say. She understood their pain, but that understanding did not overcome her love for Arthur. With a deep breath, the queen turned to leave. "Learn how the Druid bury their dead," she ordered. "I don't need to know how you do it. Just see to it that he is buried in his peoples' way."

"Guinevere," Gaius called before she made it out.

She turned.

"Ruadan was a sorcerer," he said. "By the laws of Camelot, he is not allowed a marked grave."

Gwen set her mouth in a hard line. "You've heard my orders, Gaius. No one else has to know. He is to be buried in the ways of his people."

Something odd flickered over the physician's face. It was something she'd never seen before, and it was gone too quickly for her to define it, but it was there. Something deep. Something painful. Something hopeful.

Gaius gave her a nod of obedience and turned back to the body. "I hope you will do the sensible thing and sleep a few extra hours in the morning," he said, suddenly returning to the physician she knew. "Too little sleep can affect your entire day."

Gwen smiled. "I'll keep that in mind."

"I will know if you don't," he warned lightly. "Good night, my lady."

"Good night, Gaius."

* * *

Mordred had promised himself that he wouldn't be nervous. He'd spent weeks––months, really––preparing himself for what lay in Ismere and how to find a place there; the scenarios in his head were worn and memorized, but they still hadn't been enough. When he saw the great black spike of the stronghold piercing the sunset, he'd suddenly found it difficult to swallow.

He had spent the last few months running through dozens of conversations in his mind, preparing for every question and context. Finding Morgana. Introducing himself. What to say if she didn't remember him. How to explain himself if she did. He's been so certain of his path until he saw Ismere itself, and now all he had were questions. What if she didn't remember him, even after an explanation? What if she did remember him, but judged him poorly for traveling with slavers, like Emrys had? Would she be disappointed? Could he impress her? Would she think him not even worth the time of day?

They reached the stronghold a half hour after the sun had slipped below the horizon. Ragnor announced himself to the guards and earned passage for his caravan; the men and slaves alike were shuffled inside to get their business done as quickly as possible.

Ragnor puffed up proudly when the slaves were inspected, shoving a torch in Mordred's direction. Mordred obeyed the silent command and illuminated the captives for whoever was looking, vaguely disgusted with himself for even being involved. Once the inspection was over, Mordred turned away from the spectacle to try and calm his nerves. He'd been over this. He knew this. He knew what he was going to say and had come up with every possible response. But what if, or then what if, and then what if… _what if_ s repeated over and over, and he couldn't be nervous, not this far along, he had to stay calm.

"Boy!" Ragnor called out irritably. "Who said you could wander off? Get back over here."

Mordred took a deep breath and obeyed, bracing himself for threats and insults. Ragnor seemed annoyed, but also in a fairly good mood now that it was finally time for money. Mordred hoped it would be enough to lessen the oncoming scolding.

Ragnor started in like he always did, with reminders that he was the leader of the caravan and giver of food and protection and that Mordred was one of his men, but stopped short when the air thickened sharply and the Saxons around them paused.

Beyond Ragnar, Morgana was standing in the courtyard and staring straight at them.

Mordred's heart thundered as Morgana began to walk forward.

Ragnar turned and saw the lady of Ismere, his face lighting up agreeably. "Milady," he said, walking to meet her, "I am grateful for this opportunity. I have brought you the finest––"

All it took was a single glance from Morgana to silence him. Ragnor took a step back in surprise as Morgana regarded him blankly, as if he was no more important than the falling snow, and then her eyes landed on Mordred. She swept past Ragnor without a word, and Mordred couldn't move. He prayed to the gods that he didn't look as terrified as he felt.

Morgana stopped before him. She looked him up and down, taking in his figure, his clothes, his weapons, his very soul, and then… then her face changed. It hesitated, it wondered, it feared, and then it glowed. Her eyes were caught somewhere between pain and joy, but she… she recognized him.

Slowly and softly, as if he was a precious treasure that might shatter under her fingers, Morgana reached up to touch his face.

"Mordred."

In that one word, Mordred found the answer to all his questions and realized he needn't have worried at all.

For the first time in what felt like years, Mordred allowed true, genuine joy to tug his mouth into a hesitant smile. "Hello, Morgana."

When she smiled back at him, it was like time itself turned back. Years fell away and he was a child again, and she was warm and unyielding and the rest of the world didn't matter.

"Your skin is ice," Morgana said, her smile disappearing. "Look at your face. You're skin and bones. Come inside; supper should be ready any moment now."

From a hundred miles away, someone cleared their throat. Mordred realized vaguely that it must have been Ragnor.

"Milady," the slaver said, "these men––"

"Yes, yes, I'll have them, take your money and be done with it." The High Priestess nodded to a nearby Saxon, who moved to make it so, then turned back to Mordred and gesturing for him to follow. "Come, there's no need for us to stand out here. Northern nights are cold at this time of year."

Mordred nodded and followed, biting his lip to keep happiness from overwhelming him.

The inside of Ismere wasn't quite warm, but it certainly wasn't cold as the outside. Morgana led him up a flight of stairs, down a hall and into what looked like an ancient dining room. A table was being set by two young women, who jumped when Morgana entered the room.

"Don't stop," Morgana told them dismissively. "We'll be eating shortly. Come, Mordred, sit by the fire." With a wave of her hand, the sorceress summoned two chairs beside the hearth.

Mordred sat down heavily, not quite managing to stifle a sigh of relief. Morgana sat opposite him in front of the fire, eyes never straying from his face. She was different then when they'd last met––as was he––but the differences seemed mostly circumstantial. Hair piled impatiently behind her head. Tattered black clothes glimmering faintly with enchantments. An acute hollowness in her cheeks and beneath her eyes.

"Thank you," Mordred said after some moments of silence. "It is very kind of you to offer me supper."

Morgana chuckled lightly. "You think I would let you stay outside on a night like this? You should know that you are always welcome to my fire and food, Mordred. And you look like you haven't had enough of either in far too long."

Mordred shrugged. "I've gotten by."

"That man down there, the slaver. Are you one of his?"

Mordred managed not to wince. "I traveled with him here."

"But are you on of his men?"

"I am… whatever I need to be to survive."

"Are you going to leave with him?"

Mordred opened his mouth, but couldn't find an answer.

"Survival," Morgana repeated. "You should stay here awhile. Again, you are always welcome. You could be my guest, or you could find work if that is what you wish. But if it's survival you're after, you'll have nothing to worry about at Ismere."

Mordred beamed. "I would be honored, Morgana."

"Milady," one of the serving girls murmured, curtsying. "Your supper's ready."

Morgana jerked her head at the table. "Shall we?"

Mordred stood with a nod, and they took seats at the table across from each other. Mordred couldn't remember ever seeing so much food in one place; there were apples and meats and a great bowl of soup that smelled of potatoes, with cheese wheels and loaves of bread scattered in easy reach. It all steamed and made his mouth water, but he controlled himself. As politely as he could, Mordred began serving himself some rabbit.

"There's no need for that, Mordred," Morgana laughed musically. "This is hardly a place of high grace. You may eat as you please."

"I'm sorry, my lady, I don't want to cause offense."

Morgana put down her cup of wine and looked Mordred in the eye. "Mordred. You are pale as a sheet, ragged as a beggar and skinny as a sapling. You will not cause me offense unless you stay that way. You can repay me for my hospitality by doubling what's on your plate and emptying your cup. I do not want another word from you until you're onto your second helping, am I clear?"

Mordred opened his mouth, closed it, and nodded. With a deep, excited breath, he all but dove into the feast before him. The rabbit on his plate disappeared, so he inhaled a bowl of soup and half a loaf of bread. Late fall apples, cheese, more rabbit––bones and gristle piled up steadily, because once he started, he couldn't get enough. He hadn't had proper food for what felt like years.

As Mordred wolfed down everything in reach, Morgana silently peeled herself an apple. Every now and then she would glance at her hands, but for the most part she was solely focused on him; many expressions haunted her face, but they warmed once he'd reached his second bowl of soup.

"I'd heard you were dead," she said after a while.

Mordred paused.

Morgana looked down at her hands. "It's dangerous for those of us with magic."

Those of us with magic. Not since childhood had he heard it spoken of so easily, as if magic was no more unnatural than the air.

"... It hasn't been easy," Mordred said softly.

"For any of us," she agreed.

"Sorcery frightens people," he mused, almost to himself. "Even some of those who claim to support it."

Morgana's eyebrows arched. "You see a lot."

"I've learned to." Mordred set down his fork. "I've had to, if I was not to be burnt at the stake or exploited for another man's gain."

"Attitudes will change soon," she replied with a confident smile. "The Old Religion will reign once more." Then, with a particularly sharp stab at the apple, "There will be nothing to fear once Arthur and his kind are cleansed from the earth."

Mordred tried to ignore the way the word "cleansed" caught in his ears uncomfortably. Tried, and failed.

Perhaps it was the food and warmth, or perhaps it was the sheer joy of seeing Morgana's smile again that pushed Mordred toward hope. He hoped that Morgana's choice of words was born from danger––because for all Arthur's good qualities, he was still a danger to those with magic––and so he hoped that those words could be gently soothed. He hoped he could at least temper her anger.

"You know, we had Arthur in our grasp," Mordred said softly.

Morgana froze, knife halfway through a slice. The warmth on her face vanished, and despite everything he'd seen so far, Mordred's stomach dropped at the sudden chill in her eyes.

"He escaped," the young sorcerer said, as if that somehow would explain things.

Slowly, without looking at him, Morgana put the knife and apple down. "You let him go?" she asked, voice terrifyingly quiet.

"He got away."

"How?" When her eyes returned to him, it was like being stabbed. The warm Morgana of the past hour, the gentle Morgana he had looked up to since childhood, the Morgana he had come here looking for––she was completely gone, and in her place was something… else. Something hollow. Something frightening. "Who let him go?"

"It was an accident."

The knife went flying as Morgana slammed the table. "Kill him!" she shouted. "That's all they had to do!"

When dangers took him by surprise, Mordred would always fall into old routine. Breathe. Maintain control. Don't fight, don't run. Against all instinct, Mordred held her gaze and refused to shrink from it.

"I am a High Priestess, I have the power of the heavens in my hand––"

"Morgana."

"––and yet he continued to defy me!"

Slowly, Mordred rose from his seat. "Calm. Yourself."

"I want his annihilation, Mordred," Morgana snarled, eyes wild. "I want to put his head on a pike and watch as the crows feast on his eyes!"

Mordred felt ill. He couldn't breathe to give her an answer. He couldn't move his body. Her stare locked him in place and choked him.

Then, in the distance, alarm bells began ringing.

Morgana's face twisted from hatred into a maniacal grin. _"Arthur."_

* * *

Alright, so Merlin was occasionally wrong about things. He considered it an advantage of pessimism, actually; if things went just as bad as he assumed, he had the pleasure of being right. If they went better than he assumed, he had the pleasure of things not being terrible all the time.

Yes, the trek to Ismere had been cold and miserable. Yes, the crawl through the rubbish chutes had been disgusting. Yes, it was irritating for Arthur to completely ignore him when he said there were too many Saxons. Yes, entering the mines through a cart had been painful and cramped, and yes, the clothes they'd stolen off the Saxon guards were filthy and itchy.

But damn everything, seeing those familiar faces made it all worth the trouble.

Percival's gigantic form had been easy to find in the tangle of working bodies. He was scraped and bruised, but otherwise unharmed; every single man of the patrol seemed alive and accounted for… save Gwaine, who had apparently vanished more than a day prior while chasing an "odd blue light" through the mines below Ismere. Without hesitation, Arthur handed his sword to the knight and left his men to carve their own way out of the mines.

Merlin had confidence that Percival would to lead the way to freedom, which left him more than enough room to worry about Gwaine. Because really, the carefree knight was just as bad as Arthur when it came to getting into trouble, and he didn't always have the benefit of Merlin to get himself out again.

And Gwaine was one of the very few of people in the world that Merlin was legitimately unprepared to lose.

Arthur led the way, irritatingly unconcerned that he'd just given away his only weapon and now had nothing but a torch. The Saxon clothes they'd stolen didn't have the tight weave of enchantments that protected his regular armor, which left Merlin feeling terribly exposed on his friend's behalf. Because of course things weren't difficult enough already.

In spite of his stress, or perhaps because of it, Merlin heard… no, he felt something in the distance. Not telepathy or spellcasting, just… magic. Something solid that was radiating magic. Morgana? No, he would recognize her. An object?

"Keep up, Merlin," Arthur said evenly, heading slightly away from that odd, distant tingle.

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Merlin asked, hurrying to keep pace.

"Most of the footprints lead this way."

"But if Gwaine was––"

"Shh."

Arthur stopped. Merlin stopped. Both strained to hear. Then they caught it: a soft rustle, barely more than dirt against dirt but a rustle nonetheless. The two men looked at each other, nodded, and pressed on.

Merlin felt the presence of life before Arthur did. Someone was hiding behind the wall just ahead, waiting for them, but… there was something else. Someone else? Two people? Yes, except one of them was... different. Not quite a person. Merlin readied his magic as Arthur rounded the corner––

––and then Gwaine leaped fantastically into the light, torch in hand and face twisted into a battle-ready roar.

Arthur caught Gwaine's torch halfway, blinking. Merlin sighed in delighted surprise, right before he noticed the blue glow radiating from the space beyond.

Arthur looked his knight up and down, then smiled. "Trust you not to be doing any work."

Quietly, Merlin slipped past them both to get a better look at the glow. There was a creature crouched in the darkness, half-hidden by the rock. It was both human and non-human, with two arms and legs that seemed sculpted from the sky itself, an elongated skull that held a nose and mouth and two eyes––two eyes that widened when they met Merlin's. Merlin inhaled sharply; those eyes dragged him in. He looked into the creature's face and found an ocean, endless and bottomless and beyond all human understanding.

He watched the creature examine him in turn, reverently holding its–– _her_ ––gaze.

"They're friends," Gwaine said to the glowing creature, apparently to reassure her. "Good friends."

Merlin felt her stare straight into him, through his flesh and destiny right down to his very soul, and he wondered suddenly why a creature with such deep eyes would be in a place like this.

And then she retreated, averting her gaze and slipping silently away. She scaled the face of the rocks easily, finding her way to a high passage where she stopped, threw one last glance over her shoulder, and then disappeared.

"What was that?" Arthur asked.

"Er, not exactly sure," Gwaine admitted. "But it saved my life."

Arthur asked no more questions. "We need to get moving."

"I'll slow you down," Gwaine said immediately. "Don't risk yourselves on my account."

"A bit late for that," Arthur remarked.

Merlin chuckled softly. "Don't fight it, Gwaine. We're not leaving without you."

"Didn't know you cared so much."

"Don't make leaps," Arthur said quickly. "Who else besides Merlin is going to keep the tavern in business?"

Gwaine laughed. "What, Merlin, a drinker? You've got an interesting sense of humor."

"Let's not waste time arguing," Merlin said before the conversation could turn risky.

They hadn't taken ten steps before something else didn't feel right.

"Wait," Merlin barked, straining his ears. "It's too quiet. The Saxons, where have they all gone?"

Arthur huffed. "First there are too many, now there are too few. Are you ever happy?"

Again, like a fly just out of sight, Merlin could feel that _thing_ ––that same distant knot of magic, rippling through the air… something familiar? Merlin remembered the magical signature of every sorcerer he came across, but even though he couldn't identify it… he knew that magic.

Magic pulsed through the tunnel.

"Feel the wind," Merlin breathed.

Gwaine went pale. "That's not wind."

It was when Merlin heard the roar that he remembered that magic and realized exactly what was coming down the tunnel.

The three men dove for cover as a pale streak of claws, wings and fire blast through the passage, bellowing wordlessly as she passed. The prisoners had begun rioting throughout the tunnels, and the violence had riled her––she was fleeing from the noise and steel, heading for the deeper mine shafts and away from the conflict.

"Is that what I think it is?" Gwaine asked disbelievingly.

"Where the bloody hell did Morgana get a _dragon_ from?" Arthur hissed.

Morgana. God, no, it couldn't––she couldn't be… not with Morgana. Merlin was hit by a wave of nausea. Questions, so many questions – How. When. Why here. Why her.

Why wasn't she with Kilgarrah?

If there was one skill Merlin possessed besides magic, it was pretending. He pretended to be alright, just long enough to rasp, "You get Gwaine back to Percival, I'll lure the dragon the other way."

"Merlin!" The king grabbed his sleeve. "I knew you were stupid, but not that stupid."

"Oh, I am that stupid, and if you don't believe me, watch." Another time and he would have let Arthur win the contest of strength, but this, for once, had nothing to do with Arthur. Merlin broke the king's grip in a single swipe and sprinted into the open tunnel.

 **"Deorcnes áhýde mec,"** Merlin murmured, thickening the darkness around him like a fog. He knew it wouldn't stall Arthur for long, but he needed to buy whatever time he could. He needed answers.

He could feel the trail of her magic, unlike that of any sorcerer. She had made her way into a side chamber, where he could see her nearly glowing against the shadow. She was hiding, and then... she didn't recognize him.

The dragon whirled at the sound of his feet, opening her mouth and unleashing a storm of fire. Merlin conjured a shield between them without a second thought, just long enough to find his voice.

 **"Aithusa!"** he bellowed in the Dragon Tongue. **"You must yield to me! Hear my voice and know who I am!"**

She heard his words and obeyed. The fire died in her throat, she closed her wings defensively and then dropped her head low, making herself as small as possible.

And in the dim light of the tunnel, she let Merlin see what she had become.

There was a point where damage became the normal, where there were more scars than skin––scars where scales had been plucked, where horns hadn't grown, where the body had become nothing more than loose skin over so much brittle bone. Blue eyes in sunken sockets, a skeleton jutting through nearly transparent white skin that was nothing, _nothing_ but scars and sores and ruined nerves. Lungs that struggled to take in enough air, and legs that barely stayed upright.

Merlin counted every scar, and his heart broke for each one of them.

Aithusa looked up as Merlin knelt before her.

"Aithusa." Unable to keep from shaking, Merlin reached out a gentle hand.

After a few moments of hesitation, the dragon took three rickety steps forward and pushed her nose into his palm.

"What happened to you?" he asked, voice cracking. "Who did this to you?"

Aithusa replied with a low, uncertain croon and took another step closer. Slowly, fearfully, she allowed Merlin to reach out and stroke her neck. He felt each individual vertebra as he went, and waited––prayed––for an answer. Anything to make sense of this.

It was only when she lay her head on his knee that he realized she'd already given her answer.

"You can't speak," he murmured in horror.

Aithusa shook her head, and he then couldn't speak either.

Somewhere in the distance, Merlin could hear the thunder of Saxon feet. He only just managed to get his voice back before it was too late.

"Go," he rasped.

Aithusa drew back, blinking in confusion.

"Go!"

She shook her head, pressing closer. She didn't want to leave.

 **"Go!"**

With a strained yelp, Aithusa had no choice but to do as he said. She turned tail and fled, slipping into the darkness mere moments before the thunder overtook the tunnel. One Saxon rounded the corner, then two, and then Merlin acted on instinct.

 **"Feall!"**

The roof of the tunnel came down on them, crushing the two Saxons in the lead and blocking the rest from entering the tunnel. Merlin closed his eyes briefly and reached out to make sure that Aithusa was still retreating.

And then, out of nowhere, pain exploded in Merlin's shoulder. _Searching. Torchlight. Dagger. Morgana?_

"Arthur!" Merlin shouted, shaking off the pain and taking off the way he'd come. He'd come searching for him, he knew he had – it had only ever been a question of how long.

And then Merlin tripped and went sprawling when another sharp pain stabbed him in the other shoulder.

"Arthur!" He scrambled back to his feet and kept running, and then he could see it––torchlight, shadowed figures, and he could feel that Arthur was there with them, bleeding and grieving on the ground. Beyond them, deeper in the passages, hundreds of feet were pounding; the Saxons were doubling back, finding another way around the rockfall to rejoin their mistress.

Through the air he could feel Morgana's magic, and––god, no––Mordred.

 _"Goodbye, Arthur Pendragon."_

"Arthur!" no stop no please don't no no no no

Merlin skidded around the corner, taking in the sight of his friend on the ground, the scent of blood in the air, Morgana's dagger hovering threateningly at Arthur's neck––

––and was thrown by a blast of magic before he had the chance to react. Merlin was airborne for a few endless moments, and then hit the tunnel wall and heard the crack of bones breaking throughout his body. Ribs snapped and pierced his lungs, ending his breath before he had the chance to scream; spine, limbs and skull were all fractured alike, and Merlin was thrown to the floor.

He couldn't figure out if he was completely numb or in utter agony. Everything was dark and swimming in a blur of shadow and torchlight, but he knew through the concussion that Arthur was still in danger. Merlin fought his way onto his stomach and crawled in Arthur's direction, inch by useless inch, unable to breathe and aware that he barely had any air left in his lungs.

"Morgana," Arthur murmured, but Merlin could his eyes on him. "Please."

A hiss of magic, and Arthur was silenced. "Don't speak, dear brother."

Merlin could see her, looming over the king like a wolf over fallen prey, Mordred standing at her shoulder in silence. Merlin raised a shaking hand, trying desperately to access his magic through the damage, but it refused him; his magic was working at his bones to keep him alive, distant and unresponsive. He pulled and demanded in spite of it – he was more than willing to let the wounds kill him in exchange for just one second of power.

The Saxons were growing closer.

Morgana's magic pooled around her. "It's too late."

Mordred's eyes did not waver from Arthur's face. Merlin could kill him, he could kill them both, he just needed one moment of magic. The silhouettes began to fade, melting in and out until Merlin couldn't be sure what was living and what was stone. He couldn't focus. He couldn't direct his magic. He was just as he had been in the Vatis' vision: defeated, doomed to watch Arthur die and helpless to do anything to stop it––god please no, not now, not yet, he wasn't ready he couldn't he couldn't he couldn't...

Morgana swept her hands in a circle, gathering power for her incantation. **"Hine. Fordo. Th––"**

 _No._

Metal sang through flesh and cloth, and Morgana gasped in pain. Her magic disappeared into the air and she fell to her knees.

"... Mordred?" she choked, before collapsing on the floor of the tunnel.

The sound of Saxon feet was deafening––was Aithusa roaring?––and dust began shivering off the wall. Mordred turned toward the noise, and Merlin heard the young man's brief _fear, confusion, uncertainty,_ before he dropped his dagger, bent down and pulled the king upright.

As the Saxons continued to close in, Mordred drew his sword and turned to face their approach. One man against a hundred. Two men that would be slaughtered. There was no magic that would let them survive.

So there was no other option.

With the only power he had left, Merlin reached out. _Arthur,_ he barely whispered. _To safety. Run._

Mordred glanced over. _They will find you._

 _Not him. Get Arthur out._

Hesitation.

 _Go, Mordred!_

Mordred sheathed his sword, pulled the king's arm around his shoulders and fled, pausing just long enough to snuff out the only torch in sight and plunge Merlin into the cover of darkness.

Falling dust turned to falling rock as the battle for Ismere waged throughout the mines. Saxons began spilling into the chamber, one by one and then in a great horde of steel and torches, but Merlin could no longer see them.

They were too late to find Arthur, and that had to be enough. There was nothing else he could do. Merlin closed his eyes and let unconsciousness take him.

* * *

Aaand I'm back! I went on a writing spree for an original novel of mine, so this fanfic unfortunately fell by the wayside. More canon rehash, but I changed some canon decisions here and there and added to what scenes I could. Hopefully it wasn't too well-trodden, but the next chapter should be like 90% original content with brief bookends of episode content. Still getting my head back in the fanfic game, but thanks so much for sticking with me! And as always, thanks to my lovely beta Wryter501 for helping me with this – especially after my long break. Hope you all are having as much fun reading as I am writing.


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